


Hell's Mouth

by Sinka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 05, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinka/pseuds/Sinka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean tells his brother to 'pick a hemisphere' he doesn't expect him to take it literally and drop off the map. So when an eye-opening trip to the future makes him realize their separation was a mistake, he doesn't expect having to follow Sam’s trail through several countries and across the sea. And when he finally finds his wayward brother, in the old world of all places, he certainly doesn't expect Sam to give him the cold shoulder just as they get immersed in a hunt that could be just your average haunted castle – or the very mouth of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Hell's Mouth by Sinka](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2590757) by [ooolivia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ooolivia/pseuds/ooolivia)



> This story is dedicated entirely to [](http://vail-kagami.livejournal.com/profile)[ **vail_kagami**](http://vail-kagami.livejournal.com/), one of the most talented authors and artists in the whole fandom and the best and most patient beta anyone could ever hope for.
> 
> Written for [](http://worldwide-spn.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://worldwide-spn.livejournal.com/)**worldwide_spn** and set in season 5. Spoilers up until 5.04 “The End”.

 

  
“Wait, wait, Bobby. Could you run that by me again? He _what?_ ”

“Son,” Bobby sighed. “I’m sure your hearing was fine the first five times I told you. It’s not gonna change if I repeat it once more.”

“But why would he go there? What the hell is he thinking?”

“That’s exactly the matter, isn’t it?” Bobby’s voice turned cold. “Do I need to remind you we wouldn't be in this situation if you were a little less pig-headed?”

Dean ran his palm over his face, feeling the roughness of his several-days-stubble. He really needed to shave.

“No, Bobby, I get it. I–I’ll call him, okay?”

“You are both idjits, that’s what you are. But I guess better late than never. Call me as soon as you spoke to him, you hear me?”

“Sure.” Dean hung up, not waiting for any reply. He was sure Bobby would just tear him a new one if he gave him the chance, anyway. They had been at odds ever since Dean told him he had let Sam go alone at that parking lot.

It had been weeks since he had spoken to his brother and he knew Bobby was worried. Hell, he was worried too. After that last conversation Sam hadn't called again, not that Dean was complaining – after all, that was exactly what he had wanted. But just a couple of days ago a nice little detour to the future had opened his eyes and now he couldn’t wait to see his brother again, to make sure he was okay, that he was still _Sam_.

Bobby had been drilling him to call Sam and fix things, but Dean really didn’t want to have that conversation over the phone. So he had used Bobby’s connections to find out about Sam’s whereabouts, and set to meet him. What he hadn’t expected was to end up in a rundown motel just outside of Taxco, a small city in southern Mexico. He and Sam had often talked about visiting Mexico but, just as with the Grand Canyon, they had never seemed to find the time.

He had looked through the local newspapers to see if there was anything strange going on, but as far as he could understand with his limited Spanish everything seemed pretty normal. There was nothing going on that offered an explanation what the second best hunter of the planet could possibly want here.

And then Bobby had called and informed him that one of Sam’s aliases had appeared on the passenger list of a flight to freaking _Argentina_! What the hell? Was Sam doing tourism by himself or something?

Anyway, it would take ages to drive there and maybe by then Sam would have moved again. The flight he had been on left last week, after all. How much time could a person possibly spend in Argentina?

So there was no way around it. As Bobby had been telling him again and again, Dean had to call his brother.

And he would, any second now. Still, in spite of his resolution he spent a couple of minutes staring at the screen of his mobile, caressing the ‘call’ button with his thumb until he felt utterly ridiculous and just pressed it. He waited, holding his breath, and finally sighed in relief when Sam didn’t pick up. If his brother was busy somewhere it made sense for Dean to simply leave him a message for them to meet. But the call sign went on and on without jumping to voicemail until finally it disconnected.

Huh. That was strange.

He tried again with the same outcome and Dean felt something cold running down his spine. Okay, Sam had disconnected his voicemail. No big deal, except they _never_ disconnected their voicemail, they _depended_ on it, since half the time they were too busy to answer the incoming calls.

The same happened the next time Dean tried and the one after that. And it still didn’t make any more sense than the first time. He started pacing the room. There were a thousand reasons why Sam might have judged it best to disconnect his voicemail, sure. Dean couldn’t think of any right now but that was just because he wasn’t a technology geek like Sam. And if Sam wasn’t picking up the phone that was just because he was on a job, or in a diner eating one of those disgusting salads he favoured. He would be back soon, see the missed calls and call Dean back right away like the OCD freak he was.

Although if Sam was who-knew-where having fun by himself, Dean didn’t see any reason not to do the same. He picked up his jacket and went to the diner just across the street. Several tacos and a few beers later the waitress was all over him and Dean was feeling pleasantly buzzed and extremely proud that the Winchester Charm translated so well across the border – no that he had ever doubted it. He flirted briefly with the idea of bringing her back to his room (or at least to the back alley), but Sam was bound to call soon, and knowing his pain in the ass little brother he would probably decide to do it the moment things became interesting. Dean kind of preferred not to be interrupted – he was an artist after all. While the waitress seemed disappointed when he left, some of the clients who had been giving him the evil-eye all night seemed appeased. He didn’t want to start a fight either, so it was probably a win-win situation in the end.

In a way.

Back in the motel room, Dean kicked off his boots and stretched out on the sheets. Not satin-like soft, but not bad either. He drew his phone from his pocket and placed it on the bedside table, but not before checking it again just in case his brother had called and he had somehow missed it. He hadn’t.

Dean firmly squashed the faint feeling that he was being ignored deliberately. Okay, he knew better than anybody that a hunt could take a long, long time, so damned if he was going to wait awake for Sam to come back and bother checking his mobile. He could use the time to catch a few blinks.

Except, for some reason, he couldn’t fall asleep. The sheets weren’t so nice as it had seemed at first, and somehow Dean couldn’t find a comfortable position. He kept turning and tossing until the first weak rays of light were falling through the window.

Fuck it.

He sat up and looked at the mobile’s screen again. Eight hours. It had been fucking eight hours and he was running of out excuses to explain his little brother’s behaviour. If Sam had gone for food he should be back by now and even if he was in the middle of a hunt he should have had the time to check his fucking phone at least once! Dean pressed his lips into a thin line and called again. Sam was in for the scolding of his life. They didn’t ignore calls in their line of work. Especially not with an apocalypse going on. (And whose fault was that again?) Sam should goddamn know better!

_“The person you are trying to reach is unavailable right now. Please try your call again later.”_

What the fucking hell? Dean felt a chill run down his spine, but ignored it in favor of the increasing anger (at least he was fairly sure it was anger) that was gnawing on his chest. Was Sam really ignoring him? Seriously? Because if his phone was unavailable that meant he had switched it off. And in order to switch it off he had to fucking touch it! And why would he even do that? They never switched off their phones! Even their father’s phone was always charged and on!

Dean was still streaming curses at his brother when the phone started ringing. Finally! If he was honest with himself, Dean was sorely tempted to hang up or let it ring just to give his brother a taste of his own medicine, but he wasn’t that childish. He’d have to be satisfied with kicking his selfish little brother six ways to Sunday the moment he saw him again...

Except the name showing on the screen wasn’t Sam. It was Bobby.

“Well?” Bobby grumbled. “What did he say? Do you realize I’ve been waiting the whole night?”

“There was nothing to tell, Bobby. He didn’t even pick up!” The anger (worry) was back in full force.

Bobby cursed under his breath. “Did you at least leave him a message?”

“No, I couldn’t. ” Dean was still really pissed about that, in fact. “The little shit has disconnected his voicemail. And now I think his mobile is switched off.”

Bobby’s silence at the other end of the line was louder than any of his previous curses.

“Battery must have died,” he finally offered.

Dean clenched his teeth. “Yeah, right. Of course. That must be it.”

“Why don’t you come back here? Better to figure out a way to reach him if we can stick our heads together rather than hanging on the phone the whole time.” Bobby sounded gruff as always, but Dean knew him too well not to recognize the attempt to calm him down.

And just like that, his hands started to tremble and the weight in his chest became ten time heavier – he didn’t like Bobby’s tone. Not one bit. Because he _knew_ that tone.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some cowering tulip. Out with it.”

“I’m not–”

“Bullshit! Just tell me! Whatever is it!”

Bobby sighed.

“I was able to track Sam’s movents. He’s not in Argentina anymore. He took a flight to Madrid two days ago.”

Dean sagged in relief. “Well, that’s actually good news. If I start now I can be in New Mexico in under a day.” He was already making plans; he would have to step on the gas, but his baby could take it and he would make it up to her as soon as he had found Sam and kicked his skinny ass from here to...

“No, Dean. You don’t understand. Not Madrid as in New Mexico. Madrid as in Spain, Europe.”

“Europe? He has taken a flight to another freaking _continent_?”

“I don’t know, Dean. It doesn’t make any sense and it doesn’t seem like he’s following any pattern. First Mexico, then Argentina, now Spain... it’s like he’s fucking changing hemispheres!”

And then Dean got it. It didn’t hurt less than a punch to the gut.

_‘You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good.’_

“Bobby you... you have to come here to pick up the Impala.”

_‘We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker.’_

“The Impala? What are you...?”

_‘We're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing... if we just go our own ways.’_

“It’s in the parking of this motel just outside of Taxco, I’ll send you the address by message. I haven’t been taking good care of her lately, so you should check her oil before taking her back to the scrapyard.”

_‘Dean, don't do this.’_

“Dean, calm down! What are you thinking?”

_‘Goodbye, Sam.’_

“I’m going after him, Bobby. I’m going to Spain.”


	2. Charter One

 

 

It was truly a beautiful place. Simple and elegant.

Profoundly devout, King Philip II of Spain had wanted his home to take after the famous Temple of Solomon, and the plans followed the surprisingly detailed instructions written in the Bible nearly to a T. That was how the unique site known as Royal Seat of San Lorenzo de El Escorial came to be.

But the question wasn’t ‘what’ or ‘how’. The real question was ‘why’. Why would the most powerful monarch of his time, whose empire extended across the seas, decide to locate his main residence in an unknown little village situated twenty-eight miles from the capital? (Especially since in the 16th Century, twenty-eight miles were a damn long distance). Why, against the advice of all his architects, did he choose a hill that local people believed to be cursed? And why instead of the typical royal palace did he prefer to build a castle half-fortress and half monastery?

Sam closed the book he was reading with a resounding thud. He has been reading the whole day and he wasn’t any closer to the answer than he was yesterday. Up until now he had only found something about Teluric lines and other ridiculous theories that he just couldn’t take seriously.

He stifled a yawn. His eyes felt gritty, like he hadn't sleep in days. Which, now that he thought about it, it was probably the case. And all this reading in Spanish was not doing anything to help with the pounding in his head.

He had already checked the Internet, so he knew there was little to no information available in English. But what he hadn’t expected was that all the modern Spanish sources simply ignored the darker side of Philip II’s reign. So in order to find something, anything, about the subject, he had to look into the ancient chronicles. And as pleased as he was to realize that his Spanish wasn’t as rusty as he had feared, he still was in no way prepared to read _old_ Spanish. Hell, as far as he knew, even Spaniards had difficulties understanding it.

As he stretched to give some relief to his aching muscles, a brief, wistful smile found its way to his face. He remembered his Spanish lessons at Stanford; it had been Jess who insisted he should take them, so there would be at least one class they attended together. She would have been proud to see that the lessons had paid off and he remembered enough to get by. Because God knew that nobody in this country, not even in the restaurants or information centres, seemed to speak or understand a word of English.

His smile vanished. Well, maybe proud wasn't the correct word for it. If Jess saw him now she probably wouldn't recognize him at all. After all, in a few years he had gone from honor student to blood-sucking freak. Not to mention he had brought over the apocalypse. And that was just scratching the surface of his failures... Yeah – if she could see him now she would probably hate him or feel disgusted. At least that seemed to be the pattern nowadays.

Sam looked out of the window. The sun was setting and the library would close soon. As would El Escorial. He had been there yesterday, during the touristic hours and the EMF had picked some promising readings. Even though with so many people around those readings were not totally reliable, everything seemed to point that the king’s soul still walked the corridors. Sam wasn’t so sure about the black dog that supposedly followed him, though. True, there had been a lot of sightings along the centuries but there hadn't been one strange death or unexplained event connected to this place. Sam knew well that the apparition of a black dog was usually an omen of bad things to come; at best it was a notice of misfortune and imminent death, and at worst... well, at worst the black dog was a hellhound, and no one had to remind him what was the outcome of that.

He groaned and hid his face in his hands. A couple of students looked at him funnily and the librarian exclaimed “Silencio!” but Sam ignored them all. He worried he was heading towards another disappointment, like Mexico and Argentina, and that this whole odyssey was only an enormous waste of time.

Philip II had been a haunted man, that much, at least, was clear (even if Sam wasn’t sure it was in the literal sense of the word). He was obsessed with Hell and he spent most of his considerable wealth amassing thousand of holy relics from all around the world. And he died in a terrible, painful way that Sam couldn’t really rule out as natural: For fifty-two horrific days he suffered of high fever, pustules, ulcers and wounds, while still claiming he could hear the black dog howling at his door and talking about his ‘final battle’.

But all his secrets, if he actually had any as opposed to his words having merely stemmed from the delirium of a perturbed man, Philip II had carried with him to his grave. Only the king himself knew the truth, and there was no way Sam could...

Wait.

That was it! How hadn’t he thought of it before? Maybe he didn’t have the time or knowledge to read through the thick old volumes looking for answers, but he could go to the original source and _ask_ him.

Sam grabbed his duffel and left the library. He had to pick up some things at the hostel and then break into a public monument.

Time to summon a king.

 

* * *

 

Sneaking in was surprisingly easy. There was still a small part of the monastery closed to the public; the part in which the handful of monks in charge of taking care of the basilica lived. That section was only protected by an alarm system quite easy to deactivate (at least if you had been doing this kind of thing since you were twelve) so after climbing over the fence, Sam only had to cross the monk’s courtyard and pick the lock of the small wooden door that opened to the king’s quarters.

He had crossed several corridors when he heard a small scuffle in the distance and quickly hid behind one of the columns. Maybe one of the monks was still awake? Sam waited for a couple of minutes, keeping his breath, but nothing happened. Eventually, he decided whoever or whatever had made the sound wasn’t coming this way soon and resumed his path.

The large mausoleum was nearly pitch black, but he couldn’t risk turning on his flashlight now. He slowly moved forward while his eyes got used to the darkness. Sam had been in a lot of mausoleums before, but never one so large, with so many tombs and statues in every corner and even in the middle of the corridor. And even though he wasn’t disturbed easily, he admitted the giant tomb which contained the mortal remains of all the kings’ children who had never come to adulthood across the generations was definitely creepy.

Finally, after descending a last flight of stairs, he arrived at his destination: The king’s pantheon: a small octagonal room, decorated in black and gold, with the sepulchers of the last twenty-six kings and ruling queens of the Spanish royalty.

  


 

 Sam sat in the middle of the room and started setting the items for the summoning ceremony. But just when he started mixing the ingredients, he heard the wind howling in the distance felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was an odd sound to hear, considering he was underground. However, Sam was more than used to odd things. He finished the mix and made to light the candle when there was another, closer, howl. And this time it couldn’t be mistaken for the wind. It was definitely the voice of an animal.

The ground started trembling and the the temperature inside the room dropped several degrees. There was something coming towards him, he could sense it. He could hear it getting closer and closer, running through the corridor and pounding down the stairs. Suddenly, Sam realized he didn’t have anything to defend himself with – after all it was nearly impossible to smuggle firearms into airplanes nowadays, and he knew his small hand-knife would be useless against the beast coming for him. Also, in his haste to start the ritual he had left the bag with the salt somewhere near the entrance, and there wasn’t any hope he could find it in the dark and draw the lines before the beast arrived. He was powerless. He was going to die.

Sam realised this with a cold detachment. He wasn’t nervous, he wasn’t worried, he wasn’t scared. He just sat there, his eyes glued to the door, and absently he wondered if maybe he had been this careless on purpose. (Leaving the salt out of reach? Really? Dad would be so proud...) If this maybe was exactly what he had been hoping for: a gruesome death in a foreign country where no-one would be able to identify him. Just another one for the statistic.

And nobody ( _Dean_ ) who had loved him ( _not anymore_ ) would ever know.

 

* * *

 

Dean was hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or maybe he had fallen into another dimension. Because the first thing his brother did after seeing him for the first time in weeks, after Dean had followed him _all across the globe_ to a creepy room in the basement of an old castle in frigging _Spain_ , couldn’t possibly be screaming at him in outrage for interrupting his ritual.

“Damn it, Dean! I told you not to shoot! You totally ruined it!”

And Dean was still waiting for the hidden camera to appear and a cameraman to tell him everything was a bad joke, even if he would most likely end up punching the cameraman in the face the moment his heart rate went back to normal and his blood stopped pounding in his temples.

“Excuse me?” Dean yelled back, incredulously. “Was I the only one who heard the howling? I saved your ass here! You were the one who was so immersed in your little ceremony that he didn’t see the evil spirit intending to have him for dinner!”

It was definitely not the little family reunion he had pictured.

“Evil spirit? That wasn’t...!” Sam sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “That was King Philip II, Dean, and if you had stopped to think before making your stellar appearance you would have seen he wasn’t the one howling. I needed to talk to him and after being shot close range with rock salt I don’t think he’ll be very inclined to have a conversation with me!”

Dean sputtered. How was he supposed to know his brother wanted to chitchat with the creepy man in black hovering behind him? Sam hadn’t even been looking at the ghost! In fact he was fairly sure he didn’t even know it was there until Dean aimed at it.

Sam signaled him to shut up and knelt on the floor to light the candle. They waited for a few seconds, Sam glaring around the room as if willing the king’s spirit to materialize from thin air again. But nothing happened.

“Great. There goes a night’s work.” Sam stood up, picked up the candle and the bowl and walked past him. Dean wasn’t in the least disappointed that his brother didn’t seem remotely happy to see him. In fact he didn’t seem _anything_ , hadn't even reacted to his arrival. At all.

Dean could swear he had seen something in Sam’s eyes, though. Just for a second, when he had come running down the stairs and Sam was looking directly at him (clearly expecting somebody else). His eyes had widened and something had flashed in them. It had been definitely surprise, maybe mixed with something else (something resembling pain and fear, but he just wasn’t dwelling on that), but then his face had totally closed off and now Dean wasn’t even sure he hadn’t just imagined it.

“Where are you going?”

Sam didn’t even look back while he climbed up the stairs. “You can go wherever you want. I’m going back to my hostel, there is nothing else I can do tonight.”

Ignoring the nagging voice in his head telling him that Sam had clearly dismissed him, Dean went after him. They sneaked through the courtyard and Sam stopped to connect the alarms again before climbing over the fence. He didn’t say a word, and Dean told himself that the strange tightness in his chest was due to the pride of being able to see his brother at work after so long.

Once outside, Sam started walking down the street and Dean followed suit. He kept sending side glances to his brother, but Sam didn’t offer anything. Well, two could play this little silent game. Finally after three turns, when it was glaringly obvious that Dean wasn’t going to give up, Sam stopped and finally looked him in the eyes.

“What are you doing here, Dean? How did you find me?”

“I, huh...” As much as he had wanted his brother to acknowledge him, Dean found himself at a loss for words. It was drizzling (and really, wasn’t this country supposed to be hot and sunny?) and he didn’t want to have this conversation on the street. “Can’t it wait until we have a roof over our heads?” he replied.

Sam shrugged. “I have a room in a hostel just a few blocks from here.”

 _Yeah, I know_ , Dean wanted to say. But he bit his tongue. Sam didn’t seem to be at his most understanding right now. Besides, going back to the hostel was a good thing. After this fucking endless chase to Spain Dean needed to rest and Sam didn’t look that well either. In fact, if Dean looked closer, his little brother appeared sickly pale and the circles below his eyes betrayed that he probably hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days.

“Okay, lead the way."

 

* * *

 

The hostel looked like it had seen better days. But then again, so did the whole neighbourhood. It wasn’t so much that it was in bad shape – quite the contrary, it seemed clean and sturdy, but it also was terribly old-fashioned, like Dean had suddenly been transported to the nineteenth century. Sam probably fond it charming, would say it was _vintage_ or some other ridiculous word to describe it, instead of admitting it was plain old.

He glanced at Sam and sighed. Well, that was what the old Sammy would have said. He had no clue what this distant, silent Sam was thinking about the place, because so far he hadn’t goddamned said anything.

To be honest, Dean was stumped. He hadn’t known what to expect exactly; after all Sam was unpredictable at the best of times. But he had guessed it safe to expect at least _some_ kind of reaction or emotion. He couldn't, in a million years, have foreseen this _nothingness_ that radiated from his brother in waves. This cold act that made it seem like he didn’t care at all if Dean stayed or left. Dean didn’t know how to respond to that, and it made him feel wrong-footed, entirely out of balance.

The small bells over the door tinkled softly when they entered, but the old woman behind the desk didn’t pay them any attention. Sam headed for the stairs (no elevator, obviously) and three floors later they were in Sam’s room. Not surprising, it was the only room on the whole floor with the ‘keep out’sign hanging on the doorknob. The room was spotless, though, except for the folders, documents and prints that were spread on the desk besides the window. Dean eyed the two queen beds with some relief – this definitely made it easier.

Sam leaned against the wall and looked at him expectantly. Clearly awaiting an explanation but not bothering to ask again. Well, Dean wasn’t one to beat around the bush either.

“You’re still using the same aliases and you paid this hostel with one of the last batch’s credit cards. You weren’t exactly difficult to find.” He shrugged.

“You have been monitoring me?” Sam exclaimed incredulously. “I wasn’t exactly trying to hide, Dean. Though it looks like maybe I should have.”

“Well, it surely seemed like you were, what with all that jumping from one place to the other.” Dean was feeling defensive. “And what have you been doing exactly? First Mexico, then Argentina, now Spain... you can’t blame me for thinking it’s a little strange!”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been doing my job, Dean. As always.”

“It must be really some hunt then, since as far as I know our jobs have never carried us to another fucking continent before!”

Sam ignored the question in his words. “That’s it, then? Are you keeping tabs on the fuck-up? And how did you know where I was exactly? Did you put some kind of tracking chip on me or something?”

“No. I was...” Dean coughed. “…kind of hovering outside the hostel when I saw you get out. I went after you into the castle.”

“You were hovering...” Sam didn’t seem to be able to come to terms with that. “For how long? Didn’t it cross your mind to _talk_ to me instead of keeping watch outside of my fucking hostel?”

It had. Dean had been trying to gather the guts to enter just when Sam had gotten out. Dean hadn't been near ready to confront his brother then. He still wasn’t.

“I don’t need your supervision, Dean,” Sam continued. “As you see, I’m doing quite fine on my own.”

Oh, yeah. He was doing wonderfully. Dean could see that. No near death experiences at all.

Dean sighed, trying to calm himself. This conversation wasn’t going as he had envisioned it. It was time to man up.

“I wasn’t monitoring you, or supervising you,” he replied in a soft voice. “I was simply looking for you. I was...” He gulped. “…worried.”

Silence. Sam looked at him in disbelief for a moment and then threw his head back in a horrible self-deprecating laugh that chilled Dean to the bone. Scratch what he had thought earlier about Sam not having emotions. He obviously had at least one: Bitterness.

It didn’t become him.

“Oh, yeah, of course. I can clearly see you were ‘ _worried_ ’ about me.” Sam had the gall to make the quotation marks with his hands. “It was obvious in all the nice little conversations we’ve been having every week. Oh, wait.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Dean, not buying it.”

Against his will, Dean could felt the anger boiling again, although if he looked closely, it seemed fuelled by something that strongly resembled shame.

“Well, that’s a funny thing for you to say after you have been fucking ignoring my calls!”

That stopped Sam cold. “Calls?”

“Like you don’t know! I tried to call you like fifty times in the last forty-eight hours!”

Sam looked at him for a few seconds with an unreadable expression. Then he turned and started rummaging through his backpack. He finally found the infamous phone, seemingly retrieving it from the very bottom of the duffel.

“It’s dead.”

“No shit, Sherlock!” Dean was still fuming. “I noticed that when after a few calls you decided to change tactics and switch it off!”

Sam looked at him in outrage. “I didn’t! I...” He sighed. “I meant the battery. It must have run out while I was doing research and I didn’t notice.”

Of course, like that wasn’t strange either. And what the hell was the mobile doing in the backpack and not in Sam’s pocket?

“Well, I guess your charger is dead too, then.”

Sam looked down and tiredly rubbed his temples. Dean was hit again with how damn exhausted his little brother looked.

“I don’t know if you have noticed, Dean,” he finally said, his voice nearly a whisper. “But the plugs in this country are totally different from ours. I couldn’t use my charger.”

There he had it, a perfectly reasonable explanation. And yet, it still didn’t make any sense. His brother was nothing if not well-organized, he _must_ have known about the plugs here. Dean just couldn’t believe he had simply forgotten to buy an adapter. He kind of wanted to pursue the issue, but evidently Sam wasn’t in a sharing mood, and pushing it only would lead to a dead end.

“Well, if you had bothered to check your phone before it died, you would have seen my calls. In fact, I even tried to leave a voicemail warning you that I was coming for you, but it was disconnected.”

And yeah, it was such a stupid little thing, but Dean still wasn’t over it. So he thought he should point it out and maybe get another unconvincing excuse. What he wasn’t expecting though, was for the blood to suddenly run out of his little brother’s face, or for the stricken look in his eyes.

“Voicemail?” His voice wavered. “Are you... are you _hunting_ me?”

And Dean would have been delighted at the first crack in Sam’s cold mask, if he hadn’t been too busy feeling sick to his stomach.

“Of course not! How can you even think that?”

“How can I...” Sam didn’t finish the sentence. He breathed deeply, clearly trying to compose himself, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Nevermind.”

Nevermind? _Nevermind?_ His brother looked like he was expecting Dean to empty a magazine into him at any moment and he was just supposed to ignore it? He opened his mouth to argue, but Sam beat him to it.

“Please Dean, let it be. It’s just that ever since...” He shuddered. “...you know, all the Lucifer issue, I’m not too fond of voicemails. If someone wants to tell me something, I prefer they do it face to face.”

Sam looked pointedly at him, and Dean remembered some of the disturbing rumours that Bobby had pulled from the his hunter network. It seemed Sam had had some kind of nasty fight with two of them several weeks ago. Maybe some of the more vocal hunters had used Sam’s voicemail to let him know exactly what they thought of him.

Dean clenched his fist. Now he really wanted to punch someone. Nobody had the right to put that look in his brother’s eyes.

“Okay,” he finally said, and damn if the relief on Sam’s face didn’t make him even angrier. “Care to enlighten me about this job you’re doing?”

“You want in?”

Dean shrugged. “Nothing better to do around here.”

“Of course,” Sam muttered. “Can it wait? It’s kind of late.”

Dean followed his brother’s gaze to the window.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s been a long night.” He smirked, trying to lighten up the mood. “Besides, if I have to kick your ass for going to a haunting unarmed, I’d prefer to do it tomorrow.”

“Not all of us have the luxury of Bobby’s connections,” Sam stated tiredly, but at least he wasn’t taking offense. “I’m surprised he managed to get you the sawed-off, though, since firearms are totally forbidden here.”

“Huh? Nothing to do with Bobby. I brought the sawed-off with me.”

“You did?” His brother seemed honestly awed “How the hell did you manage to smuggle it into the plane? It’s dangerous! You could have been arrested for terrorism!”

“I didn’t come here by plane.” Dean smiled goofily. “Cas zapped me here.”

“Oh.”

And just like that, Dean’s smile froze in his lips. Suddenly you could cut the tension in the room with a knife.

“Well, you know how much I hate flying. And he’s faster than any plane.” Dean felt the strange urge to explain himself, not even sure why he should be embarrassed.

Sam’s eyes had gone cold again, his face unreadable. He seemed, if possible, ten times more unreachable than before.

“Of course, your new best _pal_.” Sam spit the word. “Isn't he useful?”

He was. But for some reason, Dean didn’t think his brother wanted a real answer.

“So where is he, anyway?” Sam continued, looking around like he was waiting for the angel to appear in the room at any moment.

“No idea.” Dean didn’t rise to the bait. “I guess fighting the apocalypse in his own angelic way.”

“I’m surprised he’s not with you.” Acid was dripping off Sam’s voice. “You seem pretty inseparable lately.”

“What the...?” Dean was at loss for words. What was exactly was Sam accusing him of?

“That’s okay, though. I can see it, really. The angel and the future savior of the world. The best hunter duo in the world!”

Dean exploded. “I don’t know what you’re thinking but I did _not_ spend all this time hunting with Castiel! And what the hell are we arguing about anyway?”

Sam sent him a look he couldn’t decipher. Again. “We aren’t.”

He headed to the door, giving his back to Dean. “I’ll go speak with reception about your accommodation for the night.”

Sam didn’t slam the door, but it was a close thing.

And Dean wasn’t even sure if he should consider this whole conversation an improvement or a step back.

 

* * *

 

Sam paid for Dean’s room with the same credit card he had used for his own. Now that he knew his brother was using it to keep an eye on him he would have to get rid of it after the hunt. But it wasn’t really a big loss – after so many flights it was almost maxed out anyway.

It was true what he had said before. He hadn’t been hiding. But it honestly hadn’t occurred to him that Dean would want to follow him, not after what he had said during their last conversation. (And hadn’t it been Dean himself who told him they should be as far from each other as possible?) But now that he stopped to think about it, maybe it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Dean always took his duty very seriously, and even from afar he probably still considered it his burden to keep his disastrous little brother from making any more mistakes.

Dean had been very clear: He wasn’t here to stay (and how had Sam managed to get his hopes up again? Would he never learn?). He only wanted to know exactly what Sam was up to, and probably wouldn’t have made his presence known if Sam hadn't messed up at the crypt. As soon as Dean’s curiosity was appeased he would disappear again. He could call Castiel at any moment and vanish from his brother’s life, maybe this time forever. If he hadn't known better, Sam would have said Dean was being deliberately cruel.

But Sam _did_ know better. His brother wasn’t a cruel person, he was only being cautious. Sam simply didn’t deserve to be trusted. Not only had he betrayed his brother in the worst possible way, choosing a demon over him (and no, the addiction wasn’t a valid excuse, no matter how much it had clouded over his mind) but he had also unleashed the apocalypse, bringing on the end of the world. From the moment the cage had been opened, each and every death was on Sam. And even if he tried to atone for it for the rest of his life there was just no way to make up for something like that.

So yeah, Sam had not only worn out his welcome, he had stomped all over it. Monsters got no second chances.

With a sigh, Sam opened the door to his room. Dean was sitting in the bed closest to the door, the one that would have been his if they still were a team, and that was now free because Sam still couldn’t break the stupid habit of renting twin rooms and sleeping in the bed at the back. Sam felt another pang, but firmly squashed it. He could feel hurt all he wanted, but deep inside he knew that hunting with Castiel was a lot better for Dean than the alternative. That was how it should be.

“Your room is downstairs, on the first floor,” he said, throwing the keys to his brother. “It’s a single room, so it’ll be smaller than this one, but you should be all right.”

Dean looked up at him in surprise, and Sam noticed him eyeing the bed he was sitting in. That wouldn’t do.

“Didn’t they have a closer room? Actually, couldn’t they just change this one for twin use?”

Sam broke eye contact, looking at the wall. “I didn’t ask.”

“Right.” Dean stood, looking decidedly wounded. But as much as Sam wanted to wipe that look from his brother’s face, sleeping in the same room just wasn't an option. Not if he still wanted to keep Dean from discovering how utterly pathetic his little brother really was.

“See you tomorrow?” Sam couldn’t help himself from asking, and mentally kicked himself. Really, could he sound any more needy?

“Bright and early I guess,” Dean answered. He opened the door and then hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should be saying something else. Finally, he sighed. “Good night, Sam.”

The door closed with a soft click.

“Night,” Sam replied to the empty room.

 

* * *

 

Sam couldn’t sleep.

Well, not that he _wanted_ to sleep. But he had to. Sam wasn’t stupid, he knew his body badly needed a full night’s rest. He had been working on fumes for the last week and if he wanted a chance to measure up to his brother he had to be in perfect condition. Dean would easily notice if he was sleep-deprived and Sam didn’t want his brother to consider him even more of a burden than he did anyway.

Still, sleep wouldn’t come, and it was not only the jitters of hunting again with his brother (albeit temporarily). It was because sleeping also meant dreaming. And dreaming, more often than not, meant Lucifer invading his subconscious and playing his little mind games.

Sam couldn’t really describe what was so disturbing about his little nightly conversations with the Devil (except that he didn’t seem to be able to break out of them). Lucifer never raised his voice, never insulted him, never even touched him anymore... In fact he was the perfect image of calm and understanding.

But they still felt like nightmares.

Sam still woke up screaming.

And this time Sam wasn’t sure if he could bear Lucifer’s sympathy in the face of his reunion with his brother. Because even if Lucifer didn’t seem to know exactly _where_ he was, he always knew _what_ was inside his mind.

The light of the streetlamps filtered into the room, and Sam could see the outline of every piece of furniture in perfect sharpness. He let his eyes wander across the room until they stopped on the desk where his mobile still rested after he had pulled it from his backpack.

He felt a sudden lump in his throat and had to go to the bathroom for a glass of water in order to be able to breath normally again. He still remembered how he had clung to the phone the first few weeks. Checking it several times an hour to make sure he hadn't missed a call or a message from his brother. Once, after the mess at Mexico (and a little more whisky than was advisable) he had needed to hear his brother’s voice so badly that he had checked his voicemail, for a moment believing Dean had actually left a new one. His joy had been short-lived though. It didn’t matter that he had heard it all before – his brother’s hateful words still cut him to the core. He had spent the rest of the night in a drunken haze and by morning, still with the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, he had disconnected his voicemail. Not only to make sure he didn’t make the same mistake again, but also because he was afraid Dean would decide to leave him a similar message which said he had decided to carry out his threat.

Sam didn’t need to hear the message again to know he was living on borrowed time.

Not long after that night, unable to bear his phone’s ominous silence any longer, he had decided to throw it into his backpack and forget about it (except he _never_ forgot). It was easier than looking at the screen day after day, waiting for a call that would never come. This way he didn’t have to bear witness, over and over again, of how he had chased away his own brother. He could pretend that Dean was calling him. Pretend that Sam had simply missed it. Pretend that he was the one who wasn’t calling back.

Which was ironic, since it seemed he had really missed Dean’s calls. But still, he couldn’t make himself regret his decision now. Dean had only called to check up on him, and if Sam had answered in time, his brother would never have come to meet him across the sea. At least, missing those calls had given him the opportunity to see his brother one last time.

Sam rubbed his eyes tiredly.

He definitely regretted the way he had lashed at Dean that afternoon. He should really learn some self-control, but his brother had always had a way to nag and annoy him. Still, Sam didn’t have any right to get angry or accuse Dean of anything, and even less to ask anything of him ( _to ask for forgiveness_ ). Sam looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, not recognizing the pale and sweaty stranger that looked back at him. He would fix that mistake tomorrow. He would act professional and composed, not needy and childish.

But before he faced his brother again, he had to stop being a coward and go to sleep. Sam reached for the bottle with the tranquilizers and popped three pills. Forcing himself to swallow them dry before he had time to change his mind.

Dread filled his stomach as he lay down in the bed. Right before he fell asleep he prayed Lucifer wouldn’t find him.

His prayers, however, had always fallen on deaf ears.

He would wake up screaming.

 


	3. Chapter Two

 

 

Dean needed coffee. Badly.

His room was nice, just as Sam had said. The bed was comfortable, the sheets were disturbingly clean, and the walls were thick (or at least there wasn’t any strange sound coming from the surrounding rooms, as was so often the case in the rooms he was used to). All in all, it was a far cry from the usual shady motels they used to crash in back in the States. But still, Dean had been unable to sleep more than a couple of hours.

He had kept reliving last night’s events in his mind again and again, trying to figure out where exactly everything had gone so wrong. If he was honest to himself, his best bet was on the very moment they had separated all those weeks ago. And he only had himself to blame for that.

Sure, it had been Sam’s idea to separate in the first place. But it was Dean who had decided to break contact permanently. He could still remember how his little brother’s voice had wavered over the phone, begging him not to cut him out. But Dean had let his bitterness command his actions and had sent his brother away, just like the fucking manipulative angels wanted. As far as he knew he had steered Sam right onto a self-destructive path that lead directly to becoming Lucifer’s meatsuit.

Now Dean had to find a way to get him out of it.

Not that Sam seemed very keen on cooperating, though. At least if the act of kicking Dean out last night was any indication...

He sighed and knocked on his brother’s door. There were some muffled sounds before Sam opened and Dean needed a moment to take in his brother’s appearance. Sam’s hair was a total mess, his skin was wax-like pale and the rings under his eyes were even darker than the day before. (He wasn’t quite sure how that could have happened.) And was it possible to notably lose weight overnight? Because Dean hadn’t noticed the protruding cheekbones and collarbones the day before.

“Dude, you look like shit!”

Sam grimaced. “Thanks. Sleep doesn’t always agree with me.”

Dean could sympathize with that. “Yeah, maybe we should go in search of some coffee first. What do you think?” He still wasn’t sure if Sam wanted to spend more time with him than strictly necessary.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Let me grab my things.”

Dean observed him while he stumbled across the room picking up his wallet and boots. The sheets were rumpled, so obviously Sam had used the bed, but he still looked like he hadn’t slept a wink.

It wasn’t like he could give lessons on the subject, though.

They went to a bar just a few steps down the street and Dean was pleasantly surprised to discover this country seemed to have at least four bars per block. ( _That_ was a wise decision!)

“Café solo, por favor,[1]” said Sam to the middle-aged bartender, who just grumbled in acknowledgement of his words and looked expectantly at Dean.

He struggled with his poor Spanish. “Uh, dos?”

The bartender nodded and came back a few moments later with two small coffee cups half filled by some kind of thick black liquid. It smelled like coffee, but hell if it didn’t look like tar.

“What’s this?” Dean hissed at his brother, who was sipping the strange fluid contently.

“Black coffee. It’s what you asked for.”

Dean wasn’t convinced. He eyed the cup suspiciously.

“Dean, this is how the Spaniards drink their coffee. Strong. Try it, maybe you’ll like it.”

Dean caved and took a small sip, but he had to keep himself from spitting. Damn it, strong didn’t start to cover it! It was like compressing three cups of normal coffee in half a cup!

“This is not coffee, Sam, it’s petroleum!” And was that the ghost of a smile on Sam’s face?

“Well, they would think our coffee is watered down.”

Once he finished his coffee, Sam asked for another cup of the evil concoction and Dean glared.

“Really, I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said, bumping his shoulder. “Only you could like this freaky stuff.”

Sam flinched.

Of course, he covered it well, quickly averting his gaze with an unreadable expression. But Dean had seen it. Had _felt_ it. And even if he wasn’t sure how (had it been the bump? It couldn’t have been the joke, could it? It wasn’t even a clever one!), he knew he was the one who had caused it.

The rest of the breakfast passed in silence. Dean finished his coffee in a gulp (even if it was hideous he still needed his caffeine fix) and asked for some toast. His brother refused to eat anything, nursing instead his second cup but not drinking it, still looking by all means like he was about to topple over at any moment. Dean felt his previous good mood vanish and forced himself to have a few bites in spite of the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost ignore the iciness emanating from his brother in waves.

Almost.

 

 

* * *

 

“Well, I’m all ears. Tell me about this little pet project of yours.”

Sam seemed unaffected by Dean’s gibe, busy looking through the numerous files on his desk. That was a good thing, since Dean didn’t really want to argue or be given the cold shoulder again. It had been some damn long thirty minutes.

Dean was still feeling kind of guilty, like he should apologize or something... but he didn’t even know why, which in turn pissed him off and made him want to punch his brother. (Yeah, he was a living contradiction, so what?) He wasn’t risking touching Sam again and have him jump away, though. With Dean’s luck his little brother would probably fall down and crack his skull open.

Sam was acting normal now, at least. Or as normal as this new and improved personality allowed him. Dean guessed he should count his blessings.

“Here, take a look at this.”

Sam handed him a couple of folders and Dean quickly scanned through them. It was a collection of photos, articles printed from the Internet and some newspaper cuts. He recognized some photos of the Spanish castle they had been in the day before, but the others were a strange mix of old ruins and nature landscapes, like caves, deserts and forests. He was about to give up and ask Sam to enlighten him when he noticed a small piece of notebook paper sticking out. It was a list of places scribbled in Sam’s nearly illegible writing.

   


  

He looked up at Sam. “This is it? Your _itinerary_?”

“Yeah, it’s not nearly a complete list but...”

“Why?” Dean wasn’t even sure what he was asking for.

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Well... you know that Samuel Colt didn’t construct the Devil’s Gate, don’t you?”

Huh?

“I’m pretty sure we have solid proof on the contrary.”

“No, I mean...” Sam frowned. “Of course he built the iron door and rails of the devil’s trap. But he didn’t actually build the _gate_ to Hell, Dean. That gate, passageway, whatever you want to call it, existed way before. Maybe from the beginning of time.”

Dean just looked at him flatly.

“You don’t get it.” Sam sighed. “Demons _hate_ Hell, Dean, you know that. They are always talking about how much they wanted to escape and how difficult it was to find the way. The Devil's Gate can’t be the only gateway to Hell in the world, Dean, it's just the only one that Colt knew about.”

Dean looked down at the list in his hands; he didn’t like where this was going. At all. “Okay. I admit that kinda makes sense. But what’s it to you?”

Sam looked at him like he was crazy.

“Just think about it, Dean. If I manage to find those passages, and close them somehow, then the demons wouldn’t have any way to come over anymore. We’d only have to deal with the ones that are already here. We would be closer to winning the war!”

Dean swallowed loudly. “So... huh... okay... let me get this straight. You’re travelling around the world looking for devil’s gates? Do you even know how many are there? Or how to close them?” He could feel the dread lodging in his gut. “That’s a heck of a one-man job, Sam!”

Sam huffed in frustration. “Well, tough luck, Dean! At any moment Lucifer is going to...” His voice grew strangled and he hesitated. “...going to get his way and destroy the world.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and sat down wearily in the other bed. Dean would bet his right hand that wasn’t what Sam had originally meant to say. “After what I did, the least I can do is to make sure he doesn’t have an army at his feet.”

Dean stared at his brother. There were so many things wrong with this plan that saying he was speechless wouldn’t cover it. _This mission is suicide_ , he wanted to say. _Demons can be summoned too. There can be thousands of gates out there that you won’t ever find. You don’t even know how to close them. You’ll be just giving yourself to the demons on a silver plate_. But Dean worried if he said anything, even just one of those sentences, his brother, who was radiating misery in waves, would break into a thousand pieces in front of his eyes. Therefore, he did what the Winchesters did best: He didn’t say anything at all (not about what he was thinking anyway). He just swallowed his worries, and moved on.

“All the places on the list, then.” Dean looked down at the paper in his hands, giving his brother some time to gather up. “Are they for real? Because you sure as hell weren’t in Mexico or Argentina long enough to built an iron trap.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Well, actually, I didn’t have any clear start. There isn’t any lore that I could find which stated exactly where the passages are situated, so I decided to check the places that local people associated with Hell.”

“Of course. Because people don’t like to give gloomy names to places or anything.”

Sam looked slightly ashamed at that. “Mexico sounded promising, though. A bottomless pit in the middle of nowhere. Strange sounds in the night. Lots of people missing...”

“But?”

“Well, there was evil there, that’s for sure, just not of the demonic kind. It seems La Boca Del Diablo is one of the favourite corpses’ hiding place of the local bands and mafia. Lots of poor tortured souls that had not passed on, but no trace of sulfur.”

“Fucking humans... getting crazier every frigging day.”

“I did a ritual to help the souls pass on. The place should be clean now. At least until the next body batch.” Sam kept his eyes glued to the floor. It had probably been a disturbing experience for him. He still retained his faith in humanity, after all.

“And Argentina?”

“No luck there either.” Dean wanted to argue that finding a gate to Hell couldn’t be considered good luck, but he kept quiet. “There is a small island that according to the legends used to be a ghost island. It disappeared and appeared again, and was inhabited by voracious spirits that killed everybody on sight.”

“Sounds right up our ally.”

“Yeah, but it seems the whole land was blessed and all the spirits vanished long time ago. I checked just in case but couldn’t find anything. It was a shot in the dark anyway.”

“And of course, after the those fruitful experiences you decided to change continents and come to Spain.”

“It was the next place on the list.” Sam shrugged.

Dean could feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. “Okay, tell me about it.”

Sam handed him another folder. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m really unto something or not, either.”

Dean was not surprised. He was pretty sure that if those paths to Hell really existed, they were perfectly hidden and protected. In fact, he was glad Sam hadn’t managed to encounter any. He couldn't imagine that ending well.

He looked half-heartedly through the files (quite sure his brother would bring him up to date) when one of the photographs made him stop cold. It was a print of a painting... just a painting but... Dean’s hands went suddenly clammy, he could feel cold sweat falling down his back and there was a sharp ache drumming in his temples. Images of hooks, blood flashed in front of his eyes, and he could nearly hear the screams...

“What...” he croaked. “What the fuck is this?”

Sam leaned over him and Dean forced himself to tear his eyes from the disturbing picture.

“That’s the left panel of the triptych ‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ by Hieronymus Bosch. It’s supposed to represent Hell.”

  
  
  
([Click](http://www.mediafire.com/convkey/522e/14fu80nwjlzf3lefg.jpg) to see full HQ version)

 

Dean looked again at the at the painting, the flames, the dark beasts feasting on human flesh, the cries... He closed the folder with a snap.

“It’s... pretty accurate, yeah.” He shuddered.

“King Philip collected Bosch’s paintings, he sent parties all through Europe to find them. In fact, he asked for this one to be brought to his deathbed. He died looking at it.”

“Wait, wait! Why the hell would anybody want to die looking at something this...” Dean tried to find the correct word. “…utterly _gross_?”

“That’s the key, Dean. King Philip II was at the center of Catholicism in his time, but he went way further than faith demanded. He considered fighting evil his ultimate mission in this life, he collected pictures of Hell, holy relics, amulets, and it’s said he even dabbled in alchemy and magic. Heck, El Escorial’s library would put Bobby’s to shame and most of the books it contains were considered forbidden and heretic. If he hadn’t been a king he would have probably been burned by the Inquisition!”

Dean tried to catch up with what his brother was saying. “Sam, are you insinuating he was a _hunter_?”

“Either a hunter or a madman. Not sure yet.” Sam shrugged. “That’s why I wanted to talk to him.”

“Okay, so that would be the creepy spirit dressed in black. What about the howls?”

“Well, that’s the black dog of El Escorial. I wasn’t even sure it existed until yesterday.” Sam took the file from Dean’s hands and looked through his notes, eventually showing him an old drawing of a skinny black dog with long fur. “According to the legend, Philip II saw it for the first time during the death of his son. In fact, he was convinced it was the black dog who had killed him. And the same happened during the death of his wife and brother. In his last years he locked himself in the castle, and he started seeing it everywhere, hearing its howls every night.”

“Sounds like a demon’s deal to me.”

“Could be. But I honestly doubt it. On the one hand, it haunted him for way longer than ten years. On the other hand, Philip II’s soul obviously didn’t go to Hell. I don’t think it’s a hellhound.”

Dean smirked. “If it’s not a hellhound then there probably isn’t any gate here either.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam dropped his shoulders in defeat. “I have to check and be totally sure, though.”

Fair enough. But there was something that didn’t quite fit.

“Okay, so medieval hunters and their pets aside, I still don’t understand why you thought this specific castle could hold a gate.” Dean considered it his duty to point that out. “It’s a world heritage monument visited by thousands of people every year, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be more likely that those passages were situated in isolated places?”

“Well, it was an isolated place until Philip II decided on a whim to build his home here,” Sam insisted. “In fact, he was pretty fixed on this spot. And if you dig deep enough you’ll discover this hill has always been considered a source of evil and dark powers. Human sacrifices were offered during the pre-Christian era and the people feared and avoided the place like the plague.”

If Sam was trying to convince Dean this spot was actually a class-A candidate for a gate to Hell, he kind of failed. “Did you find any trace of sulfur?” Dean asked. “Demon posession? Any strange death that doesn’t date back to five centuries ago?”

Sam locked gazes with Dean.

“No but... the locals used to call it Hell’s Mouth,” he said softly, as if that proved anything.

However Dean looked at it, it seemed like Sam was grasping for straws. “Nothing substantial, then.”

Sam grimaced and looked away. “I guess.”

“So what’s the plan? Gonna try to speak with his highness again?”

Sam kept his eyes on the wall. “I don’t think I need to anymore. I wanted to ask him about the black dog, and we already know it’s real.”

“Are we going to hunt it?” Dean grinned; he was looking forward to some action. He had done nothing but talk and sit on his ass for the last few days.

“Yeah, tonight. This way we get our answers, whatever they may be. And even if it’s not a hellhound in the end, at least there’ll be one less black dog running around.”

And Sam would be one step closer to accepting this quest was total nonsense.

“Great. The sooner we end this, the sooner we can move on and get back to our lives.”

Sam’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yeah...”

 

* * *

 

Sam looked up to the wall. It was close to midnight and the streets were dark and empty. They had decided to infiltrate at a later time than the day before to make sure all the monks would be deep asleep. Black dogs were something of a wildcard among the supernatural – it was impossible to anticipate exactly how dangerous was the beast you were facing actually was until it appeared, so Sam and Dean couldn’t risk any interruption. Thankfully it was Sunday, so the next day the monument would be closed and hopefully they would have enough time to finish the hunt properly.

There was no moon and it was difficult to see anything, but Sam was already familiar with the place and he had no problems climbing the wall and running through the courtyard. His brother followed easily, a silent presence behind him that had been reassuring once but now only made him feel inadequate.

Sam tried to tell himself he was only imagining things but he could feel Dean’s eyes boring into him, watching his every movement and finding it faulty. After all, Dean hadn’t even tried to hide that he thought this hunt, this whole mission, was simply ridiculous. A useless eccentricity. But still, he seemed to feel the obligation to tag along, probably to make sure his useless little brother didn’t mess up a simple job. It was obvious Dean couldn’t wait for it to be over and go back to his life. A life as far as possible from Sam. ( _A life away from the freak_.)

Because yeah, maybe Sam didn’t have his brother’s hunter instinct but he wasn’t totally stupid. He knew the odds of finding a gate here were very slim. But this was... this was all Sam had.

The angels had been pretty clear, Dean was the knight in shinning armor, the only one who had any chance of defeating Lucifer and saving the world. Sam may have been relegated to the bench but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep trying to do something before it was too late.

Something besides hiding like a coward.

Sam had had the faint hope he would receive some kind of support from his brother – after all, it had been Samuel Colt’s idea, so it couldn’t be that far-fetched. But that hope had been meticulously crushed. He guessed he should have been thankful Dean hadn’t outright mocked him, but then again, maybe he was just waiting until the big bluff, maybe he had joined Sam out of amusement after all.

“We shouldn’t do the summoning in the crypt this time,” Dean interrupted Sam’s musings. “It’s too narrow, and has only one way out. If the black dog get us there it could be dangerous.”

Sam bit back his answer ( _I don’t need you to give me fucking amateur lessons, I’m a hunter too_ ) and just nodded like it hadn’t even occurred to him. He started picking the lock to the king’s rooms without saying anything at all. Dean wouldn’t trust him anyway.

While they ran through the corridors towards the mausoleum, Sam absently wished they would find something big, something terrific and lethal, something that would leave even the great Dean Winchester speechless.

Maybe that way Dean would at least acknowledge him.

When they arrived to the large anteroom that lead to the royal crypt, they stopped at once and started with the preparations, not needing words to agree that it was the most suitable place. Dean started salting the room and Sam knelt in the center and started mixing the ingredients for the ritual. He would have reveled in the feeling of still being somehow in sync with his brother if he hadn’t been busy trying not to suffocate under Dean’s scrutiny. Sam could feel the prickle of his brother’s eyes on him all the time.

“All done. Need some help there?”

Sam clenched his teeth and just shook his head, refusing to look up at Dean who had finished salting the arch to the corridor and the stairs that lead down to the Crypt in record time and now had come to stand besides his brother and observe his work. Sam placed the five candles around the bowl but before he could reach for the lighter in his pocked, Dean had crouched down and offered his own. Sam didn’t have any option but to take it.

“How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

Sam shrugged, trying unsuccessfully to turn on the damn lighter. Dean sighed, grabbed the lighter again and gave it back with a large flame. A lump formed in Sam’s throat. Dean had always been the only one who could make that old thing to work at the first try, but it still felt like failure.

( _Another one_.)

“Last time it was pretty fast. Maybe we’ll be lucky and get to sleep the rest of the night.”

Sam lighted the first candle

“Or maybe we could hit some bars, try some weird dishes and check the local chicks. Just like the old times. What do you think?”

Sam didn’t think. Didn’t want to think. It hurt too much.

He lighted the second candle.

“Sam, you haven’t said a word for hours. You’re seriously creeping me out.”

Well, nothing new, then.

Sam lighted the third candle.

“Would you stop with the silent treatment already? If there is something you want to tell me, just do it!”

He used to think that talking was the answer to everything, but they had done nothing but talk at the hostel and it had only served to widen the gaping hole inside his chest. Now he had lost all the words.

Sam lighted the fourth candle.

“Damn it, Sam. Look at me!”

Dean reached out and grabbed his chin, but Sam kept his eyes on the task. He knew what he would find if he looked into his brother’s eyes. He saw it everyday reflected in the mirror.

Sam lighted the fifth candle

Dean let go and his shoulders slumped. He rubbed his face.

“Sam, please... just... ”

A howl sounded in the distance. Dean jumped immediately, charging the sawed-off and readying himself, and Sam let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. It was a relief to finally have Dean focus on something else.

He stood slowly and drew out Ruby’s knife. He hadn’t wanted to take it, since it was one of their most valuable weapons, but Dean had been adamant, insisting that Sam was ‘rusty’. At this stage, it shouldn’t have felt like a slap in the face, but it had. Sam hadn't had the strength to argue, though. If it helped his brother to believe he was less of a hindrance, so be it.

Another howl, overlapped by a second. And a third. Sam’s eyes widened. Three howls? At the same time? That could only mean one thing, but the lore had been very clear on it, there could only be...

“There’s more than one, damn it!” Dean put himself in front of his brother, facing the corridor.

The ground started trembling, and they could hear the beast (beasts?) running towards them, its paws pounding and scratching at the marble floor. An icy wind tore through the room, blowing out two of the candles. Sam’s mind was running a mile a minute, trying to remember if he had read something about there being several black dogs, but there was nothing.

The rattling kept getting closer and louder, until it suddenly came to a halt. They couldn’t see anything – beyond the arch there was only darkness. But they could clearly hear soft growling and panting on the other side. Sam looked at the salt line; at least it was intact in spite of the wind, so whatever it was, it wouldn’t be able to cross into the room yet.

That, at least, was the theory, until suddenly an enormous black paw stepped right on the salt line and broke it as if it wasn’t even there.

“What the hell is that?” Dean sputtered. “A _lion_?”

Certainly the size would match. But as more and more parts of the beast materialized, and another paw proved unaffected by the salt line, it became increasingly obvious that it was definitely not a lion. Dean cursed under his breath while Sam realized that he shouldn’t have discarded some of the most outrageous testimonies and theories. Because that settled it. Not a black dog. And not a hellhound either.

At least not a normal one.

“Cerberus...” he gasped.

And Sam could have sworn the three-headed monster was smiling, studying them with an intelligent yellow gaze and sniffing the air like it was savoring their scent. Hadn’t he wished for a dangerous hunt to impress his brother? Well, there he had it. And he could have laughed at the irony of the situation if it weren’t for the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his chest.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see a familiar dark figure appear on the stairs to the royal crypt, unable to cross over the salt line there. One of the heads stared at the ghost and made a strange sound. It sounded like it was laughing.

“Por el amor de Dios, ¿qué habéis hecho? ¡Dejadme entrar! _¡Dejadme entrar!_ ”[2]

Something clicked in the back of Sam’s mind, and he was abruptly aware they ( _he_ ) had made a terrible mistake ( _again_ ). He finally understood why there hadn’t been any supernatural deaths surrounding the apparitions of the black dog along the centuries. Why Philip II still haunted the castle. Why wherever the black dog appeared, the spirit wasn’t far behind.

Those were each other’s nemesis. And apparently, he and Dean had locked the good one out.

Clearly satisfied with the situation, Cerberus started advancing on its preys. Its three pairs of eyes locked on the younger Winchester. Sam couldn’t look away.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Dean raised his shotgun. “Don’t you dare, Lassie!”

“No! Dean, wait!”

It was too late, Dean aimed an iron buckshot at one of the heads, but most of it just bounced off and did little more than annoy the beast that let out an outraged cry. Horrified, Sam watched in slow motion as the monster changed positions, fixed its gaze on his brother and prepared to pounce.

It was a matter of milliseconds.

Sam crouched, threw the knife across the floor in order to break the salt line at the stairs, and jumped towards his brother.

And who would have thought? Even the guard dogs of Hell attacked exactly like normal dogs. Going for the throat first. He had to admit it was damn effective.

Everything became kind of blurry afterwards.

"No... nonononono Sam! _Sam!_ "

Sam struggled to open his eyes. Dean was all over him, pressing both hands against the wound on his neck, even though like Sam he had to know it was useless. Actually, Sam was pretty sure not only his throat, but also his chest was ripped open and he could feel the blood gushing out between his brother’s fingers.

“Come on, Sammy, stay with me. Hold on. I’m gonna call for help okay? But you have to hold on!”

Dean’s voice was soothing. Sam felt a wave running down his body, and it could be pain or cold, but damn if it didn’t feel like relief. Because this was it. This was finally it and it was so much better than he had imagined. He had been so afraid of dying alone. So sure it was exactly what was going to happen. But here he was, dying in his brother’s arms.

“No! wake up, Sam! You have to stay awake!”

He absently thought he should feel sadness, or maybe anger. But the truth was he didn’t feel anything at all except a strangely detached sense of contentment. Everything was how it should be. The universe was righting itself.

“Sam! _Please!_ ”

Sam forced himself to blink and looked into his brother’s eyes, for the first time that night and for the last time ever. He could almost pretend the worry he saw reflected in Dean’s eyes was because of _him_ , and not just because someone had died on his watch.

“ _Sammy!_ ”

Sam smiled. It wasn’t such a bad way to go.

 

* * *

 

Dean couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel. It was like being inside of one of those nightmares in which you were trapped and you couldn’t move. But Dean knew one or two things about nightmares, and this was no dream. This was real. This was his brother’s body pressed against his chest. This was his brother’s blood soaking his knees.

“Sam! Sammy! Damn it!” he called, and begged, and rocked Sammy in his arms. But Sam wasn’t listening. Dean had been too late. He had failed to save his little brother.

Again.

It was like Cold Oak all over again.

Or maybe it was worse. Because this time there was no convenient crossroads demon waiting at the next corner. Both angels and demons already had what they wanted, they had used them and pulled them apart to get it, and now they wouldn’t be interested in Dean’s sorry excuse of a soul anymore.

He tightened his arms around Sam, an ingrained instinct of protection now useless. He didn’t know what had happened to the monster. One moment it was there, tearing into his stupid little brother who had jumped unarmed in front of it. And the next it was gone. For all Dean knew he was about to become its next dish, but he didn’t care. Just a few days ago he had been shown what was in store for him when he was without his brother, and it wasn’t a future worth living.

Feeling a presence besides them, Dean forced himself to raise his head. There, looking down at his brother’s body, was Philip II.

“Lo siento,”[3] the ghost whispered sadly, and then vanished.

Dean ignored it and hid his burning eyes in Sam’s hair again. Apologies didn’t make any difference. Sam was still getting colder by the second and Dean still didn’t know how he was supposed to keep on going without him. Last time he had barely lasted twenty-four hours with his brother dead before crumbling – how was he supposed to live now? How had Sam done it for four whole months?

 _Badly_ , supplied a voice inside his mind and Dean wanted to laugh. Funny how a little perspective changed one’s views. Dean could admit now that two years ago he had taken the easy way out: he hadn’t wanted to survive without his brother, so he didn’t. But Sam hadn’t had that option. He had been forced to keep on fighting, and since no demon would buy his soul anymore, he had taken the scenic route and started giving himself away one painful piece at a time.

Today it was Dean’s turn to carry on alone, and he wasn’t sure he could do it without falling into a pit of despair and losing himself in the process, too.

Dean drew a shuddering breath. Sam looked peaceful, with a faint smile on his bloodied lips. And Dean wanted to be sick, because that didn’t make it better, it made it _worse_. His brother had died _smiling_. Sam had seemed happier in his last painful moments than he had been in the last few months, maybe years, and how fucked up was that? Who the hell smiled when they were gasping for air? What did that mean?

And why did he feel like it was his fault?

It was too much. The guilt, the sorrow. He had to pull himself together and start moving. There was no window in the room, so he had no idea how long he had been kneeling there. It could have been hours for all he knew. Dean grasped for the last shreds of self control and let his more rational part take over, feeling a cold calm wash over him. He had to take his brother’s body out of here as soon as possible, find the way to...

Sam started shaking.

For a moment Dean thought he had imagined it, but then the shaking gave way to full body spasms and he hurried to restrain the flying limbs. The small part of Dean’s brain that hadn’t gone into shock worried faintly his brother was having a seizure, because if that was the case maybe he should make sure Sam didn’t bite his tongue or choked on it.

Except he was pretty sure dead people couldn't have seizures so that didn’t make any sense.

Suddenly Sam opened his eyes and drew in a long, violent breath, like he had been drowning in deep waters and now he couldn’t find enough oxygen in the air. But Sam hadn’t been drowning either. This wasn’t Baywatch and there wasn’t any blond busty lifeguard who had dragged his brother to the beach and performed a miraculous CPR session.

No, Sam had been gone, his throat sliced open by a gigantic three-headed black dog, and he had bled to death before Dean could even spare a few minutes to call Cas to fix him. Dean had not hallucinated it or dreamed it because not even in his most macabre moments could he have ever made up something like that. And now Sam was coughing violently, and Dean was muttering reassuring nonsense, while patting Sam’s back with his right hand and feeling a strong, fast heartbeat below his left.

Finally the coughing fit seemed to subside and Sam started breathing normally again. ( _Again!_ ). Dean wanted to say something, anything, but before he could manage to connect his brain with his mouth, Sam stood up in a fast movement, getting out of reach. He patted his clothes, like the stains could come off like dust, and looked down at Dean apparently unfazed to see his big brother sitting in the middle of a large pool of blood.

Of _Sam_ ’s blood.

“We should go. I really need a shower.” Sam wrinkled his nose. “And you could use one too.”

Dean couldn’t speak, because he was too busy staring at his brother’s long, unscathed, intact neck. And maybe it was true most of his brain cells had gone on holiday because he only could mutter a faint “Wha..?”

Definitely, not his most articulate moment. But Sam seemed to understand anyway.

“Guess Lucifer comes in handy sometimes.” He shrugged.

 

* * *

 

Sam opened the door and let his brother enter the room before him. He still didn’t quite understand why Dean had insisted on coming up with him instead of going directly to his own room. There was only one bathroom per room, so it definitely would have been faster to split.

“You can have the shower first.”

Dean just looked at him for a few moments. He had been uncharacteristically silent the whole way back. Maybe he was upset things had gotten messy at the hunt but there was no need to overreact. They could get back to it in the morning to finish the job – after all, the monument would be closed the whole day. Or was he mad because of the dark stains on his clothes? Blood was a pain in the ass to remove. Sam would offer to pay for the dry-cleaning, but he was fairly sure it would end up being more expensive than simply buying a new pair of jeans.

Whatever Dean was looking for in his face, he didn’t seem to find it. He just sighed and headed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Sam walked to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. There wasn’t much of a view, but the condensation droplets on the other side of the pane were painting nice patterns in the polished surface. He followed two of them with his eyes as they fell, making a mental bet over which one would arrive first at their goal. If drops of water had goals, that was.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the darkness behind his eyelids. He was feeling strangely disconnected from his own body. Like his mind was floating in space and there was only a tiny fragment left in him. He probably should have felt something about what had happened. Maybe surprise at being alive or anger at being robbed of any control over his own existence. But there was nothing.

The moment the shower stopped running and Dean opened the door, Sam sidestepped him and went inside. He turned the thermostat all the way up but the water still felt cold against his face and back, even after the bathroom was filled with steam and his pale skin had turned an alarming shade of red.

When he finally stepped back into the room, his used clothes in his hands and dressed in fresh ones, it could have been minutes or hours. But his brother was still there, sitting on the bed and watching him like Dean was a hawk and Sam was the skittish rabbit he wanted to eat.

“Okay.” Dean cleared his throat. “I think it’s talk time.”

Sam didn’t necessarily agree with that statement. In fact he was fairly sure they should be researching instead. Talking would be useless and impractical to the hunt. But he didn’t feel like arguing right now either.

“About what?”

"You were dead." Dean snapped. And Sam realized his eyes were red. He wondered if his brother had gotten soap into his eyes, or if the exhaustion was getting to him.

Ironically, Sam hadn’t felt this rested in ages himself.

"Yeah, I suppose I was." He couldn't remember anything though. He wondered if his soul had gone to Heaven or Hell, or it had simply been stuck in the middle, rejected by both factions.

"And Lucifer brought you back to life." Sam couldn’t really read Dean’s tone. Angry? Accusatory? It used to be so easy to interpret it but now he only came up blank. He wondered when he had lost that ability. Maybe it was the moment the first drop of Ruby’s blood touched his tongue.

"He told me as much in my dreams. So it was definitely a possibility." Damn, now that he looked closer he saw that his trousers were ruined. He would definitely have to buy new ones. For some strange reason, this country wasn’t too fond of public laundromats.

“He told–” Dean choked. His voice was kind of rough, maybe he was coming up with something. “And does this happen often?"

"It was a theory." Sam could probably try to salvage his shirt. Or not, since the tears in the front seemed beyond any kind of mending. "I hadn't tested it yet."

There was a strangled sound, but Dean didn’t answer. Sam looked up from his clothes and realized his brother was staring at him like he was crazy or a stranger. Both of which Sam guessed he possibly was. After all, he had quite forgotten what it was to feel like himself lately.

Whatever. If Dean wanted to waste time moping, he could do it by himself. Sam deposited the clothes on the bed and turned to the desk, going though the files quickly. There was still so much work to do. In the end he had been right, Cerberus was definitely a black dog, but obviously not your average one. He had to go back to the sources, check some of the legends and testimonies he had initially dismissed because as it turned out they weren’t so far-fetched after all. He had to back to square one, maybe go back to the library and...

“Did you do it on purpose?” Dean wasn’t exactly shouting, but it was a close thing.

“What?”

“Did you step in front of that beast, unarmed, in order to test your _theory_?” He spit the word like it was the most disgusting thing in the world.

“Of course not.” Something small snapped inside his chest, and Sam absently rubbed it. He didn’t want to fight, he wanted to start working on the case. Why couldn’t Dean just let it go?

“You sure? Because that’s exactly what it looks like. Would you care explaining to me what the fuck happened there?”

Dean stood, menacing. And Sam took a step backwards. He didn’t want to think about it.

“I was just doing my job!” His chest felt heavy, and breathing hurt. It was like he had a dead weight beneath his ribs. “I saved your life,” he whispered.

“Did you? Because at least _I_ was armed! You had thrown away the fucking knife!”

“I had to break the salt line.” And everything was fixed now. Nothing had happened. Couldn’t Dean see it? “I don’t know what you’re thinking but–”

“No. The question is what the hell were _you_ thinking? Because from my standpoint it looks like you’re on a suicide mission, so fucking certain that if something happens Lucifer will save your ass!”

“That’s not...” Sam shook his head. There was nothing that Lucifer could offer him that he wanted. Not even his life.

“Well, that makes it better. Because that means you were hoping that he wouldn’t!”

“AND WHAT DO YOU CARE?” Sam’s sudden outburst took them both by surprise, but it was too late now, something had broken loose inside of him, like a dam that was overflowing, letting out feelings he hadn’t even known he had contained within. “Or wait, are you disappointed I came back to life? Is that it?”

Dean opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Is that it? Did you think you were finally free from your burden, Dean? That you wouldn’t have to keep watching me like a dog to make sure I didn’t mess up again? That I wouldn’t betray you again?”

“Sam...”

“Or maybe you thought that little mistake you made two years ago had been righted. After all, you made it crystal clear that you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. That you didn’t care for me at all anymore. But wasn’t it enough to disown me? How much do you regret having ever gone to that crossroad? No apocalypse, no vessel for Lucifer. No worries! Did you finally realize you sacrificed yourself in vain? Because it wasn’t worth it, Dean. You know now that _I_ wasn’t worth...”

Dean punched him.

Sam fell against the wall, and slid to the floor. But the pain had barely registered in his mind before Dean was pulling him up again and hugging him like his life depended on it. Sam wanted to fight him, wanted to push him away, but he couldn't remember the last time he had been hugged like this, like he was something important, like he mattered. He could hear somebody sobbing and dimly realized his face was wet. Dean was repeating the same words in his ear, again and again, and they sounded a lot like ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

So Sam clung to his brother’s shirt, hid his face in his brother’s neck, and just cried.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, squeezing each other like the moment they let go one of them would simply slip away into thin air. But when finally they separated, the first rays of the morning were timidly showing through the window.

Sam felt pliant and malleable, but utterly exhausted. His throat was raw, his eyes were puffy and his whole face felt swollen. Dean didn’t say anything, just helped him to bed and then he walked out. Irrational panic started to lodge in Sam’s throat, but before he had the time to really register it, Dean came back with an ice pack, a pill against pain and a glass of water. And Sam let go of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

After feeding him the pill with a sip of water, and pressing the ice to his cheek, Dean crawled into the narrow bed with him. It was a single bed, so there was hardly enough space for the two grown up men, but Sam wasn’t going to complain. He let himself be manhandled into his brother’s arms again and faintly wondered if he should remind Dean that he had his own room two floors down. After all, he still didn’t want him to know about Lucifer’s nightly visits. But he couldn’t summon the willpower to talk and, to be honest, he didn’t want Dean to go.

He forced himself to stop thinking and just let the feeling of relief wash over him. He knew it was ridiculous and maybe a little pathetic, but here, soaking in his brother’s warmth, he felt safe, cherished and protected. Like nothing and nobody could reach him.

He drifted away.

And for the first time in many many weeks, Lucifer didn’t come.

 

  


  
\--

[1] Black coffee, please.  
[2] For God’s sake, what have you done? Let me in! Let me in!!  
[3] I'm sorry.


	4. Chapter Three

 

It was late.

Light was falling in through the window and shone into Sam's eyes, making him squint. The sun was standing high in the sky, the sky was very blue with no clouds in sight, and butterflies were dancing in the air on the other side of the glass. It was so idyllic that Sam could swear he almost heard the birds singing.

Wait.

There were definitely chirping noises.

Sam snorted. He couldn't remember the last time he had the luxury of sleeping in, or the last time he had woken up to such a peaceful scenery (if ever). There was always a case to crack or a hunt to finish. Lingering in bed was never an option and doing it right now was... unsettling.

He should get up, if not for the job at least because his bladder was demanding attention. But he couldn't. Dean was still asleep, drooling into his pillow and enveloping Sam's waist with an iron grip. If he moved now there was a huge chance that Dean would wake up, and he couldn't risk that . Not only because he was feeling kind of comfortable and warm in the cocoon of his brother's arms (which he would never admit to Dean's face), but also because he was a little (or very) terrified of facing him.

Yeah, he was mortified by his embarrassing outburst and subsequent crying fit but that wasn't it. The main issue was that he didn't have the faintest idea where they stood with each other after all that had happened.

And he was scared out of his mind of reading more into it than was really there.

Everything had been crystal clear before. Sure, it sucked, but that was life ( _his_ life, at least). He knew his role and what was expected of him: Namely getting out of his brother's way, not giving in to Lucifer and trying not to mess up anything else.

But Dean had come for him ( _and yelled and hugged and punched and said sorry_ ) and now everything was muddled and confusing. He wasn't sure what it all meant. Wasn't sure what _Dean_ meant. And he didn't want to let himself hope when years of experience were telling him to expect the worst.

Then of course, there was the little issue of yesterday's botched hunt. The fact that he had pushed Dean head first into a dangerous job without sufficient information (ignorance and overconfidence were hardly an excuse). The fact that he had almost gotten his brother killed. The fact that Sam had died in his place.

The fact that he had _failed_ to remain dead.

If Dean asked, Sam still wouldn't know what to tell him. He didn't want to talk about Lucifer's promise (or their nightly chats) and he definitely wasn't going to apologize for saving Dean's life. He would do the same again in a second. Even if it had hurt. A lot.

Not the dying part (that had actually been all right), but the coming back to life part. His body had felt like he was on fire, like a thousand needles were piercing his skin at the same time. For a few agonizing seconds he hadn't been able to breathe, or think, or move. His body wouldn't obey him, like it didn't belong to him anymore (and he really didn't want to dwell on _that_ ). And even afterwards, something had felt off. Like he wasn't quite human (nothing new there) or he wasn't quite alive.

It definitely hadn't felt like this the last time he had been resurrected (and damn it, he wished people would stop making decisions for him about his life and death). So the only explanation he could come up with was that Lucifer had done it on purpose, maybe as a warning or a joke. Probably both. He was probably laughing his ass off somewhere.

Shit, Sam really needed to get up. Maybe he could manage to slip out of bed unnoticed if he was _really_ careful. He shifted minutely but as soon as he moved Dean's grip tightened on his waist.

"Where are you going?"

His brother had opened one green eye and was staring at him all disgruntled. Sam just stared back and then looked pointedly at Dean's arm around his waist.

So much for being inconspicuous. "I kind of need to answer the call of nature, if that's okay with you. We can cuddle again afterwards."

It was worth it to see Dean jump and the flush that spread all over his face. Sam got up, leaving his brother's bewildered expression behind. He was starting to think that maybe Dean Winchester was a closet snuggler; they had slept in the same bed when they were kids, but this time his brother didn't even have Sam's fear of clowns as an excuse.

When he came back, Dean was already up, clearly waiting for him, and Sam couldn't help a grimace. This was it. The moment reality crashed down on him and all this expectations were shot to hell. He had hoped for the break to last a little longer.

"Does it hurt?"

Sam was momentarily confused, until he registered the ice pack (now turned lukewarm water pack) in his brother's hands.

He shrugged. "Not really. It's not swollen anymore." There was a vivid bruise spreading across his cheekbone though.

"Do you..." Dean hesitated. "Do you want me to get you another pack?"

That was a Trademark Winchester Apology if he ever heard one. Sam wasn't sure if it changed anything. He didn't really know what to do with it.

"No need. I've had worse."

Dean studied him in silence and Sam wanted to kick himself. He had just given his brother the perfect opening.

"So..."

Sam readied himself for the questioning.

Dean sighed. "Are you hungry?"

Sam stared, floored by the sudden change of subject. For a moment, before he remembered that was exactly what he wanted, he felt a small pang of disappointment.

"Well..." He couldn't really believe Dean would let it go. There had to be a catch somewhere.

"Because I'm starving, man," Dean added. "We haven't had anything since yesterday."

Oblivious to Sam's inner turmoil, his traitorous stomach decided to growl at that precise moment. Dean smiled softly.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Surprisingly, Sam found himself smiling tentatively in return. "I could use some lunch," he confirmed.

"Let's go, then. Or I'll start contemplating chewing on my own arm."

Dean opened the door but then he hesitated and blocked the way before Sam could pass.

"Sure you don't want to put something on it? People are going to think I hit you."

The words were playful, but there was a hint of doubt and guilt in Dean's eyes.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You did hit me."

Dean grinned in reply. "That doesn't mean I want everybody to discover my dirty secrets, though."

Hearing his brother's joke, as feeble as it was, Sam couldn't help feeling lighter than he had felt in ages, like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He wasn't as stupid. Not really. He knew nothing had been fixed. But he could recognize a peace offering when he saw it.

He squashed the small voice in the back of his head that was telling him Dean simply didn't care enough to pursue the matter.

"I'm afraid you'll have to live in shame." He smirked, patting his brother's shoulder.

Dean laughed, and the truce was sealed. Sam still didn't know where they stood, and it didn't change that his brother would have to go back to his real mission and leave him behind when the hunt was over. But the thought of living in the bubble and feigning normality, even only for a little while, was too tempting.

Better go with the flow and enjoy it while it lasted.

 

* * *

 

"No cheeseburger."

"No."

"Or bacon burger."

"No."

"Or..."

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam exploded. "I already told you. There are no burgers on the menu!"

"But... seriously? Aren't you pulling my leg?" Dean felt affronted – what kind of restaurant didn't offer any kind of burger?

"You can check the menu yourself."

Dean gazed the sheet but didn't pick it up. "It's in Spanish."

Sam rubbed his temples and sighed. Dean wasn't sure if it was as expression of his exasperation or if he was nursing a headache.

"Of course it's in Spanish, Dean. We are in a Spanish restaurant, with a Spanish menu and Spanish dishes! In Spain."

"But you can't tell me people don't eat burgers in this country, that's outrageous!"

If looks could kill, Dean would probably be dead by now (he was fairly sure Sam wasn't really trying, though – he had proved to be very competent at killing with his mind in the past, after all).

"Of course they eat burgers, but you have to go to a fast food or hamburger restaurant."

"And remind me why we entered here in the first place?"

"Because you were whining nonstop about how hungry you were and we had to enter the first place we found," Sam hissed. "And it happened to be a _local_ restaurant!"

Dean raised his hands in surrender. It was kind of funny to see his brother fuming, and he was fairly tempted to keep at it to see if he could get him to yell or throw something. But then, he probably shouldn't push it.

"Okay, so what are you having then? I bet the local cuisine includes delicious salads."

Sam rubbed his face again, but Dean could see he was fighting a smile.

"They have salads all right. But I'm going to try the Paella."

"Paella?"

"Yes. I've heard it's really good."

"What's that?" Dean wasn't convinced, something with a name that strange had to be healthy. "Don't tell me it's a vegetable dish."

"It has vegetables," Sam conceded, "but it's mainly rice with rabbit and chicken."

Actually, that didn't sound so awful. If everything else failed, he could still eat only the meat.

"It's one of the most famous Spanish dishes in the world. It would be a pity to be here and not try it at least once. And God knows you need to expand your food horizon."

Sam was definitely trying to convince him and Dean wasn't very sure why that made him feel a little giddy. Maybe it was simply seeing Sam showing actual interest in something.

"Saben ya lo que quieren?"[4] The poor waitress that had been standing by the table for the last five minutes, witnessing their banter with increasing impatience, finally decided to make her move.

"Paella para mi, por favor,"[5] said Sam, and then turned to watch his brother with badly hidden expectation.

And that, more than anything, was what fixed the deal. Not wanting to disappoint him, Dean nodded to his brother and was rewarded with another smile. (It was small, and not on par with Sam's full on dimpled grin, but it was a step in the right direction.)

"Lo mismo para él,"[6] Sam told the girl. She wrote it down and walked back to the kitchen with obvious relief.

Of course, then Sam proceed to babble about the merits and ingredients of the dish and Dean let his brother's words wash over him, enjoying the moment but not really paying attention. Ever since they had woken up that morning, Dean could feel something tender and raw between them. Like a previously infected wound that was now clean. Still open, but slowly healing.

If anything had been obvious by last night's discussion it was that poking at it wouldn't do any good. Words were clearly not Dean's forte, so it was time to simply show Sam they were still a team and that his rightful place was by his big brother's side.

The waitress came back a few minutes later with two full dishes, and as soon as Dean looked down at his plate he started wavering in his decision.

"Sam..."

"Yes?" Sam was already attacking his share with obvious delight.

"The rice is yellow."

"It's called saffron, Dean," Sam said long-sufferingly. "Just try it."

There was no way to get out of it with his pride intact. Preemptively cringing, Dean put a spoonful inside his mouth and started chewing.

Oh.

It was actually pretty tasty.

"And?" Sam was watching him smugly.

"It has nothing on a burger," Dean informed, not wanting to give his brother the satisfaction of having been right.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"But it's not... half bad, either." Dean caved.

Sam snorted but didn't say anything else. For a few minutes they enjoyed their food in comfortable silence.

"Well," Dean said when he finally felt he wasn't going to faint from hunger anymore. "What's the plan?"

Sam nearly choked.

"Do you want to talk about a hunt here?" he asked incredulously.

Dean looked around the almost empty restaurant.

"You said yourself that hardly anyone speaks English here. And if anyone does, they'll only think we are two crazy Americans talking folklore."

Sam seemed to think about it and finally shrugged. "I'm not sure where to go from here. There were a couple of old tales that said the black dog was Cerberus, but nothing else."

"Any clue how to kill it? Because the old classics surely don't seem to do the trick."

"Not really. I'd have to research further." Sam ran his fingers through his hair. "I didn't really give any credit to the possibility until now."

"At least we can assume that if Cerberus is here, there has to be a devil's gate somewhere. Congratulations Sammy, you found one!"

A small flush crawled overSam's cheeks, but he shook his head dejectedly.

"Yeah, although it's not very useful if we don't know how to kill the guardian."

"So what? We hit the library and find the way, it's simple."

"It's not, Dean. I already looked through most books about El Escorial in the local library and I could hardly find any information about the legend. There wasn't any section about occultism or magic either." Sam rubbed his eyes tiredly. "The only person who apparently ever gave a damn about it was King Phillip himself and whatever knowledge he had, he took it to the grave."

Dean felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

"Oh no, you don't! don't you dare. I know where this is going so don't even think about it!" Dean couldn't believe Sam was even contemplating the possibility, not after what had happened. "Every time you call on one them the other is not far behind, so nobody is summoning anyone until we know how to kill or contain that stupid dog for good, you hear me?"

"But Dean, it's the only lead we have. We can take some precautionary measures and if everything else fails I can distract it – hold it up so you can escape, it's not like I can suffer any permanent damage any..."

"I'm not using you as a fucking _distraction_ , damn it!" Dean hit the table and one of the glasses fell and broke into thousands of tiny little pieces.

Sam looked at him in shock, until the waitress came with a broom and he had to apologize profusely for the scene. Dean didn't even look at her, he was seething.

"Dean..." Sam tried when she left them alone.

"No," Dean hissed. "I won't stand aside and watch you die again. I just..." He chocked. "I just can't! I don't care if you think Lucifer gave you superpowers, you hear me?"

Sam winced, but didn't reply.

"If you need more information, we'll go to the original sources. After all, if that king of yours was really a hunter, he must have had reference books or kept a journal, so we'll track them down even if we have to level this god-forsaken country!"

For a few moments, Sam seemed too stunned to form full sentences, but then a slow smile started spreading across his face.

"You are a genius, Dean!"

"What?" The sudden mood change left him reeling.

"The library! King Phillip II had thousands of esoteric books and they are still inside El Escorial!" Sam was nearly glowing. "It's probably the oldest and most complete occultism collection in the world but the books were never moved to another location because everybody thinks alchemy and such arts are just crap. They keep it as a museum, Dean!"

"Okay, so that means..."

"That means that if there is a journal, it must still be there! And even if there isn't, we'll probably be able to find something else in the manuscripts!"

Yep, his little brother was definitely geeking it out. "Seems we have a plan, then."

"The palace is closed today, so we can go there and research until tomorrow morning if necessary."

Dean suppressed a groan. He couldn't develope any excitement about reading boring old volumes for hours on end, but any idea that didn't include irrational self-sacrifices had to be counted as a win.

"Well, I'm definitely going to need some pie to get through the night." He made a signal for the waitress.

"You want pie?" Sam smirked evilly and Dean's blood ran cold.

"This is a restaurant, isn't it? There _must_ be pie on the menu." Sam was still smirking. "Please, tell me they have pie."

"Oh, of course they have pie."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "You are fucking tease, Sammy. Pie is serious matter, you don't mess with pie!"

Sam raised his palms in surrender and picked up the menu. "Okay, so what flavor do you prefer? Tuna or meat?"

Dean made an anguished sound. "No apple pie?"

Sam shook his head.

"Or raspberry?"

Another shook.

"Pumpkin? Pecan?" Dean added weakly. This couldn't be happening.

"Sorry Dean." Sam said, although he didn't sound sorry at all, "I'm afraid sweet pies are a rarity in here. Spaniards mostly eat salad ones only."

Dean stared at his brother in horror. "You brought me to a pie-less country," he accused him.

Sam shrugged. "It was you who followed me. And they do have many kinds of cake. It's close enough, isn't it?"

Dean spluttered, but before he could find the proper words to reply to such heresy, the waitress came by their table to see what they wanted.

Sam looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "What will it be, Dean?"

Right. This had become personal. He really couldn't wait to finish this god-forsaken hunt and get his brother's ass out of this barbarian country.

"Just the check, please," he said between clenched teeth.

 

* * *

 

Sneaking into the castle in broad daylight proved to be a lot more difficult than it had been at night. Not only because of the occasional local people passing by or the handful of monks working in the garden, but also because there seemed to be a lot of oblivious tourists who didn't know that most public places in Spain closed on Mondays and were fluttering dazedly around the monument.

After an hour of fruitless waiting, Sam was getting impatient, worried they would spend the whole afternoon outside, and his brother was no better off. In fact, Dean had tried to convince him several times to throw all caution to the wind and climb the wall when they thought nobody was looking. But Sam wasn't risking prison, no matter how much Dean argued that Castiel could get them out of jail.

Besides, if at all possible, he wanted to keep his face and current alias out of the police files. He didn't know how to obtain a fake passport here and therefore he needed to keep his current one clean. When this mess was over Dean would go back to the States, but Sam didn't have a private angel to help him jump between countries.

Finally, after another half an hour, Mother Nature seemed to take pity on them and it started raining heavily. In minutes everybody had run for cover, so they could break into the castle. Both of them drenched to the core, but without any danger of being discovered.

Sam looked at the small brochure in his hands. "The library is upstairs. Exactly on the other side of the castle."

Dean just nodded, taking a long grim look at the corridor leading to the mausoleum before turning away. Sam couldn't blame him; he, too, was relieved to leave that part of the castle behind. As far as he knew, there was still a big pool of his own blood in there.

They avoided the court rooms, just in case there were security cameras keeping watch on the treasures there, and walked in silence through the side corridors that once belonged to the servants. They had to pick a couple of old iron grille doors on the way since the servant quarters weren't interesting enough to be open to the tourists, but at least they didn't need to use the flashlights. There was more than enough light entering through the window panes.

"Dude, this place looks a lot less eerie in daylight," Dean commented a few minutes later, while Sam worked on opening the large wooden doors leading to the library. "I was starting to worry about your beloved king's tastes".

"I'll let you know King Philip II had excellent tastes." Sam replied, finally managing to crack the lock. "But you can judge by yourself."

The doors opened and Sam smiled to himself when Dean gasped in awe. It was really a beautiful room, one of the largest halls in the whole castle. The light was coming softly through the huge windows, illuminating the frescoes decorating the golden vaulted ceilings and the hand-carved wooden shelves that covered the walls, separated only by small marble columns. The result was elegant, peaceful, almost ethereal. In another life (or another world), Sam could picture himself spending hours and hours inside this room just for the pleasure of it.

  


 

"Okay, you were right, Bobby would drool all over himself if he saw this place. But how many books did you say the king owned?"

Well, maybe it wasn't the beauty of the room that had taken Dean by surprise. "There are around forty-thousand books and manuscripts here, if that's what you're asking."

Dean rubbed his face. "And we have no idea what we're looking for, do we?"

"Something related to black dogs or Hell's passages?"

"Yeah, that definitely narrows it down." Dean deadpanned. "You aware I don't speak Spanish, aren't you?"

And now Dean was trying to saddle him with the research job.

"It won't be any problem. Most of these books should be in Latin, anyway." Sam smirked, and Dean's face fell. His brother had never been too fond of Latin, but he could handle it, if he had to. Barely.

"But it's going to take _ages_!" Dean was definitely whining now so Sam just ignored him.

"Then the sooner we start the sooner we'll find something." He walked to the first wooden cabinet and took a look at the books stored there. "By the way, I'd say you can safely skip all the books about alchemy. King Philip was trying to find the potion for eternal life too, but obviously he didn't succeed."

Dean stomped to the other side of the room, cursing under his breath, and Sam felt his smile waver. As amusing as it was, he knew Dean was right. There were too many books to check and even with two pairs of eyes at work it could take them several days to find anything remotely relevant. And staying that long just didn't fit Dean's plan.

With good reason. Dean had a world to save, after all. Sam was ( _unimportant_ ) only fighting on the sidelines.

Great. Less than two days sharing continents with his brother and he was already getting greedy. Sam shook his head and tried to turn his focus back to the book in his hands. He really had no right to complain. Things were clearly a lot better between them than he would have dared to hope just a few days ago. At the very least Dean was _talking_ to him. That meant that maybe Dean would want to keep some kind of contact when they separated, even if it was just once or twice a month to make sure his little brother hadn't gone bonkers.

"Are you slacking, Sammy?"

Sam was tempted to give him the finger. "Are you watching me instead of reading books?"

Dean just snorted and Sam added the book he had been looking at to the growing ‘useless' pile at his feet. They worked for another hour in silence. It wasn't cozy but it definitely wasn't uncomfortable either

"This guy was all kinds of crazy," said Dean, discarding yet another thick volume. "I just found a book about the medicinal use of leeches."

"You must be in the anatomy and medical section." Sam shrugged. "Leeching was fairly common in the middle ages."

"As I said, crazy." Dean waited for a few seconds until it was obvious Sam wasn't going to comment on it. "You know, this would be so much easier if there was a section for demons or something."

Sam closed his book (a treaty about the cleansing of the soul and the reading of auras) and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"We are looking for his heretic books, Dean. People were tortured and burned for even looking at them, let alone owning them. It makes sense that he didn't put them all together for easy finding."

Dean just looked at him blankly, and Sam felt his heart skip a beat. He could hear the countdown in his brother's head. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but he was sure any moment now, Dean would tell him he had to go.

"You know, King Philip II took care of this library himself. If we manage to speak with him again he can..."

"Haven't we had this conversation already?" Dean cut in, his voice cold as ice. "There will be _no_ summoning here until we know how to defeat that monster, you hear me?"

Sam sighed, but didn't argue. On the one hand he could understand Dean's concerns – he had lived through too many Tuesdays (and one damn long Wednesday) to ever try to impose the possibility of a temporary death on his brother, but on the other hand it grated him to discard what was clearly the smartest course of action.

It seemed Dean still considered Sam's safety his responsibility, which was kind of annoying and soothing at the same time. But if ( _when_ ) Dean bailed and found his way back to his real life, Sam could always try to do it on his own. It would be a little more risky doing it without backup, but Dean didn't have to know if there were any undesired side-effects. What you don't know can't hurt you and all that jazz.

And yeah, he knew it was fucked up to think of his own death as a ‘side-effect'. But it was not like it was a big deal. It wouldn't even be permanent anyway.

"I've finished the first cabinet," he informed Dean. "Nothing of interest."

That wasn't exactly true – he gladly would have dedicated several hours to each of the invaluable manuscripts he had skipped over, but he wasn't here for pleasure.

"Great," answered Dean, moving to the next cabinet as well. "That only leaves fifty-eight to..."

Dean choked on his own words, and even without looking Sam knew something was wrong by the sudden drop in the temperature. He turned slowly and followed Dean's horrified look to the dark, yet see-through, figure that had appeared in the center of the room.

"Quizá yo puedas ayudarles,"[7] said the King.

 

* * *

 

The floor wasn't trembling.

Every time that three-headed nightmare had put in an appearance the ground had shaken like the castle was going to fall on them. Now everything was quiet. No tremors and no howls.

That was the only thing that was helping Dean to keep himself grounded and not go into full freak-out mode. His hands were itching for his shotgun and all his instincts were telling him to start putting salt lines right the fuck now. But last time those had proven to be less than useful. Try counterproductive in fact.

Maybe he could draw a devil's trap in every doorway. That could work. Demon-dogs were still demons, weren't they?

The ghost had assured them (or assured Sam, since Dean couldn't understand a word of what he was saying) they weren't in any imminent danger since the black dog never appeared during the day and the only reason it had found them so easily the previous times was because of the summoning magic.

Dean wasn't convinced.

Still, he couldn't really do anything else than keep watch and see his brother babbling happily away with a dead hunter king who was leading him through the shelves and showing him several books.

His life was fucking surreal sometimes.

Okay, most of the time. But that didn't make it any less frustrating.

"Look at this, Dean." Sam walked excitedly to him. "It's amazing, Philip..."

"Philip? Are we on first name basis already?"

Sam glared him. "Well, if you want to be more accurate, his name in Spanish is Felipe." Dean rolled his eyes. "He told me he suspected there was a passage to Hell here early in his reign and he dedicated his life to try to close it and hide it from prying eyes."

"Is there a devil's gate somewhere, then?"

"No, that's the matter, Dean." Sam shoved a book under his nose. "This whole place is a kind of devil's gate, but totally different from Colt's!" Dean couldn't hide a soft smile at his brother's enthusiasm. "They didn't know about iron or devil's traps so he tried to contain it with religious symbols." Sam pointed to a map of the castle. "The floor-design is like a symmetrical grid, a symbol of martyrdom. He also put crosses in every tower, and built a monastery and a church in the very center of the castle."

"Does it works?" Dean was feeling skeptical after the whole Guard Dog from Hell experience.

"Well, honestly?" Sam glanced to the dark figure at the other side of the room. "I don't think it would have done much by itself. But here comes the genius part. Philip ordered to put holy relics inside every wall, every corner and every ornament of every building, much like we do for a poltergeist, in order to create some kind of energy cage."

"Sam. I'm not going to tell your holy relics are _totally_ useless. But their power is minimal and it certainly cannot hold demons. You know as well as me that powerful demons can step on holy ground."

Sam huffed in frustration. "I agree. But we are not talking about a handful of holy relics. We are talking thousands, Dean!"

"Eight-thousand one-hundred and sixteen relics to be exact," said a grave voice behind them.

What the...? Dean froze and for the size of Sam's eyes, he was as surprised as him. Slowly, they turned to look at the ghost that had decided to pop into the conversation.

"You speak _English_?" Dean said incredulously.

"Of course I do." The ghost rose himself to his full height (which was still around ten inches shorter than Dean) "I am King. It's my duty to learn all languages of the other royal houses."

"And it didn't occur to you to mention that before?"

The dead king frowned. "That I understand foreign languages doesn't mean I feel comfortable using them, especially the modern versions. Besides, since you are guests in my realm, shouldn't you be the one to make the effort to talk in my language?"

Sam smirked. "He has a point."

"Go ahead, take his side."

As usual, Sam ignored him. "Your Highness, we would be very grateful if you would accept to speak in English with us. My brother doesn't understand a word of Spanish and my own skills leave a lot to be desired."

The ghost smiled. Dean found it kind of disturbing to be honest.

"Please, no need to be so formal. Noble birth or not, we all share the same trade."

Dean grimaced; hunter or not (and he wasn't still sold on that one), he didn't like the ghost. Blame it on his training.

"Could you please move?" he asked, not at all with the appropriate respect and certainly not in Spanish. "I can't see the doors well through you and I don't want that beast to catch us off guard."

Sam scowled. The ghost tilted his head, but didn't move.

"As I told your brother, there no need to worry for the time being. Cerberus is asleep, it very rarely walks by day."

"Rarely. Right. That's reassuring."

"Dean!" Sam barked.

Dean threw up his arms in exasperation. "Well, he's already dead, so excuse me for worrying about our safety here."

"If Cerberus were to wake up, I would _feel_ it. I give you my solemn word nothing will happen to you as long as I'm here."

"We know." Sam was fast to assure the king. "And we thank you for your protection."

Dean rolled his eyes. Trust Sam to get all doey-eyed about a ghost.

"I would still feel safer with a couple of devil's traps," he grumbled, although he had to admit he could feel his muscles relaxing a little.

"Actually, that's exactly what I was talking about with King Phillip a few moments ago. How Colt closed a passage to Hell too, building a gigantic iron devil's trap."

The ghost nodded. "It's a really useful knowledge. I wish I had gotten my hands on it before. It would probably have saved a lot of time, and a lot of lives."

"You achieved more than anybody could have hoped for with the means at your disposal," Sam insisted.

And Dean was feeling utterly lost in the conversation.

"Wait, wait. You mean you _did_ manage to close a passage to Hell? Seriously?"

The king glared. "I did."

"Okay, so what about the demonic watchdog then?"

The ghost hunched a little and Dean felt a small tingle of victory. "I had this land sanctified as soon as I discovered the Hell's Mouth existed, and I also brought all the relics that I could find in the kingdom. But you were right about one thing, young man: holy relics hold only some power, and it was not nearly enough. Cerberus tried to stop me from the beginning." The ghost's eyes turned sad. "There was a lot of ‘accidents' during the construction of this place, and a lot of people died."

Dean had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat. That was definitely Hunter's Guilt. Dean could certainly relate to it.

"Even after the monastery was finished, it still couldn't stop the most powerful demons from escaping. So I sent search parties all over Europe. With every relic that was obtained and brought here, the holy power of the castle increased, weakening the Hell hole. But it was slow... too slow." The ghost shook his head. "Decades passed until I managed to gather enough of them to completely seal the gate. Plenty of time for Cerberus to take my whole family from me."

Dean kept silent. Losing their loved ones was something that every hunter had in common.

"So you closed the gate, but also locked Cerberus out of Hell," Sam guessed.

The ghost nodded. "Regretfully, my successors never saw any need to spend the royal treasure on even more religious items. So the current number of relics is enough to weaken it, to keep him captive inside the walls. But they are not enough to neutralize it completely. "

"No wonder it's not a happy camper, then." Dean muttered.

The ghost stayed silent for a few moments, his expression dark. "Yes, but... it's more complicated than that." Dean swallowed a snort, because (duh!) it always was. "Cerberus is the guardian beast of the gate to Hell. It's _connected_ to it and used to be able to open and close the door at will. As long as it's alive, it will never stop trying to break the seal."

"Well," Dean shrugged. "There is no hurry. If it has failed for five centuries I don't think we have to worry for any imminent breakthrough."

"No!" The king turned his gelid gaze on them, and Dean felt the hairs of his arms stand up, reminding him they were talking with an actual ghost. "We cannot waste any time. You have to help me to kill it and it's mandatory we do it tonight."

Yeah, this wasn't so funny anymore. A niggling suspicion appeared at the back of Dean's mind.

"Why the sudden rush?" he asked, but the ghost just pursed his lips. "What has changed since–"

"Cerberus killed me," his brother said in a flat voice.

God fucking damn it.

"The spilled human blood tainted the sanctity of this place, didn't it?"

"Sam..." Dean could nearly see the wheels turning in his brother's head. Sam was blaming himself for dying, for God's sake! But if somebody had failed here it was Dean. Because keeping his brother safe had always been _his_ job.

"But that's not all, of course. It drank _my_ blood and ain't I fucking special? My blood isn't _just_ human. It must have been like crack for that beast."

"Sam, stop it." Dean hissed, and he absently realized he was panting a little, although he wasn't sure why. He just knew he couldn't bear to hear his brother talking like that.

And he didn't want to dwell again on all the demon blood mess either. It was over and done. ( _At least he hoped so_.)

Sam drew a shuddering breath. "You mentioned you could feel Cerberus, didn't you? You felt it become stronger."

The ghost just nodded and looked guiltily at the floor.

"You must have worked so hard all these years." Sam kept talking, gaze averted. "The legend said you haunted the castle, but that's not true, you were _patrolling_ it. Making sure that the monster didn't hurt anybody and keeping the gate closed." He laughed bitterly. "How typical... Everything was perfect until I..."

Silence.

Dean tried to catch his brother's eyes but Sam wouldn't meet his. Dean knew he should say something, anything, but even if he had been good with this kind of thing and managed to find the right words, he was fairly sure it wouldn't have made any difference. Sam was stubborn like that.

After some internal debating, he simply put his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed, trying to give his brother some comfort and hoping he wouldn't jump away this time. He was surprised when Sam actually leaned into his touch.

"Okay then." Sam raised his head in defiance, his eyes hard. "How do we fix this?"

 

* * *

 

Dean stopped to wipe the sweat off his brow. He really didn't understand why kings couldn't be buried in a cemetery like everybody else; it was a lot easier to dig sand than to break stupidly thick black marble. And a lot less tiring. Especially when you only had a tiny chisel and a hammer from the maintenance room.

He sighed in frustration and started attacking the coffin again. After several more minutes of hard work, he finally managed to break through the surface and a small hole was formed, accompanied by a cloud of dust and letting out a gust of stuffy and foul air. Dean coughed and covered his nose, because no matter how much he had gotten used to this smell, this part still sucked.

"For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return..."

"What the...?" Dean jumped at the sudden voice resounding in the room and instinctively made gesture to grab the shotgun.

"I would prefer if you didn't do that. It doesn't hurt me but it's certainly... unsettling," said the King, who was standing just in the middle of the crypt.

"Damn it, dude! Warn a guy next time, okay?" Dean could still feel his heart slamming into his ribcage.

"My apologies. I was merely... curious," said the ghost, staring at the tomb and his own remains.

Dean breathed deeply and started digging out bones and rags and putting them into a large cotton bag he had also borrowed earlier. The hole was too small though, and he probably wouldn't be able to reach them all. He sighed. That was going to mean at least another half hour of chipping stone. He was suddenly overcome by the childish urge to stomp over the bones but swallowed it. He didn't want to offend their host.

"This is a little morbid, don't you think?"

The ghost shrugged. Dean didn't know how a ghost could look so nonchalant.

"Still, this is creepy. I'm not used to the ghost whose grave I'm disgracing to come in peace. They don't usually agree with what I'm going to do."

"I do."

Yeah, Dean knew that. But that didn't make it any less unnerving, especially since it went against everything he had ever been taught.

"Don't you have something to do elsewhere?" Maybe the ghost would take the hint and leave him alone.

"Actually, my visit entertained the purpose of talking to you privately."

Dean looked at him suspiciously. "Why would you want to talk to me? You don't even like me!"

"I don't know where you got that impression." The ghost seemed honestly puzzled.

Maybe because he had acted like a prick?

"Never mind... What do you want? Anything you want to say to me, you can say it in front of Sammy."

"I know. Your loyalty to each other is certainly commendable." Dean didn't know how to answer to that. "In fact, I've come to thank you."

"Thank me?" He would never have seen that one coming.

The ghost signaled the stairs leading to the room in which the dried pool of Sam's blood was still untouched. Dean shivered.

"Yes. I don't know nor do I understand exactly what you did to save your brother's life, but I appreciate it."

What? Was the ghost seriously thanking him for something that Lucifer had done?

"I know it's presumptuous of me. It's obvious you didn't do it on my behalf. But after five hundred years of fighting to keep everybody who entered the castle safe, it profoundly saddened me to think that in the end, I had failed."

Dean was left speechless. He couldn't even begin to explain the mess they were in. The mess the _whole world_ was in. But he also couldn't accept praise for something that hadn't been his doing. The whole natural order was fucked up and he didn't know how anybody could think it was cause for celebration.

Although Dean had to admit that, deep inside (and not quite as deep), that he was damn grateful to Lucifer right now.

"I–I didn't..." he stuttered, unable to find the right words. "It wasn't me, it's..."

"Complicated?" the ghost offered.

"Yes." Dean sighed, rubbing his jaw. God, he needed to shave. "I guess that kind of sums it up. We are in a really fucked up situation right now and we are trying to put it right."

That was probably the understatement of the century.

"Well, my gratitude still stands. You both are helping me to fulfill my life's mission. So I deeply hope you manage to carry yours to success."

Dean smiled tiredly. "I quite think we have bitten more than we can chew, you know? But hey, if you have waited for five hundred years I can wait for a little while longer too."

The ghost smiled back. "You don't seem the type to be patient."

"Yeah." Dean looked away – that was why he had nearly lost Sam, for talking too fast, coming to all the wrong conclusions and pushing him away. "That's kind of one of the problems."

Not anymore. He wasn't going to be manipulated into getting rid of his brother to arrive earlier to the finishing line. He would not sacrifice Sam. He was going to take Sam's ass back to the States, and if someone was going to do a sacrifice in this stupid angel war, it would sure as hell be the big brother.

"I'm sure you'll be all right. As far as I can see, you both make a strong and resourceful team."

Dean snorted. They weren't, but he was hoping they would be soon enough.

"You know what, man?"

The ghost looked at him in barely hidden irritation , clearly not used to being addressed in such a casual manner. "Yes?"

"You are not so bad yourself. For a stuck-up."

The ghost spluttered (and really, since when could ghosts _splutter_?) and disappeared in a loud and annoyed puff.

"Blessed privacy." Dean muttered, smiling slightly to himself, and got back to work.

 

* * *

 

Sam placed the small box on the floor, right in the corner. According to Philip II, the highest concentration of relics in the whole castle was here, in the basilica (which kind of made sense, of course), and Cerberus tried to avoid it as much as possible. Bringing all the portable reliquaries situated in the surrounding quarters to this place would help to increase the holy energy levels, and although Sam thought it would probably be barely noticeable, sometimes small changes made all the difference.

"I see you finished collecting the relics," said the King, who had appeared in the middle of the room and was surveying Sam's work.

"Yes, but there weren't many, just a couple of reliquaries here and there." Sam sighed, pushing his bangs out of his face. "I kind of wish you hadn't put so many charms inside the walls where we can't reach them."

"If I hadn't done that this whole cage would have been useless."

"Point," Sam conceded.

"Cerberus will be at its weakest in here. Let's just hope this level of concentration will confuse it long enough for our plan to work."

That was _if_ the plan worked. Cerberus seemed to be one of a kind and there was exactly zero reliable lore on how to kill it. They were trying to get away with a mix of instinct, experience and wishful thinking. And that without taking into account the energy boost the beast had received thanks to Sam's damned monster blood.

Enough. He had messed it up and it was his duty to fix it. Period. He could waste all the time he wanted on self-pity trips afterwards.

Sam knelt on the floor, picked the jar he had left there earlier and started drawing. "Can I ask you something?"

Though he wasn't looking, he sensed the king moving closer. "Go ahead. If it's in my power to answer, I shall."

"It's just... what's exactly your story?" he blurted, and then cringed. Great. Dean's sense of diplomacy was rubbing off on him.

"I was under the impression you were mostly aware of my life, already." Sam could hear confusion in the ghost's voice.

"No, I mean..." He sighed and looked up. "How did you end like this? You were a powerful king. You had all the riches you could desire and you could do anything you wanted. But you chose to do this... to become a hunter. I really don't understand."

The ghost remained silent for so long Sam was beginning to lose hope he would answer at all.

"I wouldn't say I chose it," Philip finally said, his voice grave. "As far as I understand, it was my destiny. There was simply never an other option for me."

Destiny. Sam had to swallow around the lump in his throat. "I see," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The king paused again; Sam could feel his eyes boring into him. "Am I right to think this is a question of personal importance to you?"

"I..." Sam shrugged. "I seem to have a bit of a destiny as well."

Philip II nodded, like he had expected no different. "I was born with a curse. Or a gift. I guess it depends on how you look at it. But I could see _things_ ever since I was a child. Things that nobody else could see. "

"Like ghosts?"

The king smiled sadly and spread his arms. "Everybody can see ghosts, son. You don't need any special skill for that." Sam wanted to smack himself. Duh. "No, I mean darkness inside people. _Evil_."

"You could recognize demons. Probably you were some kind of psychic."

"Is that how people call it nowadays? No physician ever had a name for my _affliction_." The ghost turned his gaze to some point far away. "I learned soon enough to hide my discoveries, but I understood it was also my duty to use the power at my disposal to fight against the invisible poison spreading through the Kingdom."

Sam got it, maybe too well. You couldn't ignore what was part of you.

"My whole life may be a curse too," he said quietly. "There is evil in me, and it doesn't matter what I do or what my intentions are, everything I touch becomes twisted and warped."

"I can recognize evil, son, and there is none in you."

Sam shook his head. "You don't know what you're saying." How to explain you were destined to be Lucifer's puppet? Or that you had started _The_ Apocalypse in the first place? "No matter what path I choose, they all seem to lead back to the same point."

"Destiny is a tricky thing," the ghost admitted. "We all have may have one. But we can decide whether we follow it or fight it. Nothing is written in stone."

Sam scoffed. "Did you fight against yours? Because, no offense, but it doesn't seem to have worked very well for you."

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth that he realized what he'd said and felt a surge of guilt flood through him.

"I'm sorry." Sam could feel the king's disapproving eyes on him. "That was unfair and completely out of line."

"It doesn't matter," the ghost replied sternly. "Being right is not an excuse for rudeness, but I guess you haven't said anything that isn't true."

"No, I'm really in no position to judge anyone's situation."

The ghost didn't answer and Sam worked for a few minutes in silence, wondering if there was a way to actually kick himself in the face.

"I don't know what that destiny you are trying to fight against is." The ghost's voice snapped Sam out of his reverie. "But still, I daresay you are very lucky."

"Lucky?" He could think of many words to describe himself or his life, but ‘lucky' definitely wasn't one of them. Hell, it probably wouldn't make the top five-thousand list.

The ghost nodded and looked at his hands. "When I showed myself to you at the library, neither you nor your brother were surprised."

"That's not true. We weren't expecting you to show up out of the blue."

"You were startled, then," the ghost conceded. "But not surprised. And when I explained about my work here, you were clearly impressed, but you believed me."

"Why wouldn't I?" Sam furrowed his brow in confusion. He didn't understand what the king was trying to get at.

"My whole life, nobody could see what I could see," the ghost explained. "I had to mask the real reasons behind most of the decisions I made. My _eccentricities_ , as my subjects used to call them, were only accepted because I was King and everybody wanted to be in my good graces. Even my closest and most valued advisers probably never believed one word I said. "

For a moment, Sam remembered Stanford. How difficult it had been for him to hide his past and his awareness of the things that were lurking in the darkness. How tiring it had been to pretend all the time to be someone he wasn't. How much he had relied on the knowledge that there was at least one person out there who knew him for what he really was (a person who in spite of all the hurt was really only a phone call away).

How Stanford had been by far the least painful of their separations.

Suddenly, Sam felt dread rising in his throat. Because he understood. He _knew_ what the ghost was getting at, what he was trying to tell him.

And the ghost was wrong.

"To be completely honest, you are the first person I've ever spoken to about this kind of matter who I'm completely sure really believes me," the king continued, oblivious to Sam's inner turmoil. "So yes, I think you're lucky. Because even though there seems to be a heavy burden that you carry on your shoulders, you still have something that I never did."

It was like watching a train wreck, Sam couldn't help but watch.

"And what's that?" he asked softly.

"Someone to share that burden with. Your brother."

( _Not for much longer_.)

The words felt like a stone lying in Sam's chest.

"Having someone by your side, someone to talk to and watch your back. That's more powerful and valuable than any weapon."

Sam shook his head. He knew those words were meant to make him feel better, but they didn't. Because the king had it all backwards. Sam used to have something like that. Love, trust, loyalty, the whole pack. Unwavering and unconditional. But not anymore. He had lost it. What he had now was a partnership with an expiration date.

He didn't deserve any better.

Dean did.

"He has gotten to you too, hasn't he?" Sam tried to smile, although it probably looked more like a grimace. "No wonder, Dean has a way of endearing himself to all he meets... But yeah, you're right, my brother is pretty awesome to have around."

And he was going to be grateful for every hour he had left.

"Well, it's nice to see you two doing all the hard work while I was down there chatting, sunbathing and having fun," came a gruff voice from the other side of the room.

Dean was standing by the door, looking kind of ridiculous trying to glower at them while covered head to toe in stone dust, and Sam couldn't help a real smile forming on his lips at the same time another small pang echoed inside him. He hadn't known it was possible to miss someone before they had gone away, but this moment already felt like a distant memory.

"Did you take everything?" The ghost floated towards his brother.

"Until the last rag." Dean took the bag off his shoulder. "Where do you want me to put it?"

"Behind the altar, we must hide it well."

Dean raised his eyebrow in annoyance at being ordered around by the ghost, but did as he was told. "I still don't understand why we need your bones here," he complained under his breath.

To be honest, Sam wasn't very clear on this point either. It was certainly unusual for a ghost to actively encourage the uncovering of his own remains, but it was obvious there was a deep connection between Philip II and the castle. At least Cerberus seemed very keen on avoiding the ghost so maybe his remains would serve as some kind of amplifier or...

"To burn them."

"What?" Dean's look of disbelief mirrored the one on Sam's face.

"It's the only way." The ghost shrugged. "At least the only one we have at our disposal."

"But what does it have to do with...?" Dean frowned but the ghost didn't elaborate. He was apparently unperturbed by the upcoming events, and Sam suddenly realized he was a total idiot.

"You _feel_ it," he whispered in awe. "You said you could feel Cerberus and locate where it was at every moment." The king's face was unreadable. "You're not connected to this place, you're connected to Cerberus!"

"Wait, wait! What you mean connected?" Dean looked at him in outrage. "You don't mean that monster and him are..."

"Bonded," the king confirmed, like it wasn't a big deal. "I wouldn't recommend it. The act was kind of painful."

"You did it _yourself_?" Dean wasn't yelling, but it was a close thing.

The ghost looked at them in silence for a few seconds, but finally caved with a long sigh. "I had just barely managed to close the gate when I realized that Cerberus had escaped. It wouldn't have taken long for the beast to open it again and there was no time to locate and bring new relics. I searched for a way to kill it, but all my attempts were unfruitful. So when I came across a soul-binding spell, I thought I could try to tame it."

Sam remembered what he had read during his research, how Philip II had died between deliriums after weeks of suffering under an unknown agonizing sickness. "It killed you."

The ghost nodded. "An undesired side-effect I hadn't taken into consideration. But it was successful."

"And it prevented you from passing on."

"True, but it goes both ways. As a ghost I'm tied to this place, but Cerberus cannot leave either."

"This is madness," Dean muttered and Sam had to agree with his brother. "Does that mean that if we salt and burn your... uh..." He gestured towards where the bag was hidden. "It will kill that monster, too?"

"I think so."

"But you're not sure." Dean narrowed his eyes at him, crossing his arms.

"It's not so easy. The bond is stronger the closer we are to each other. That's why Cerberus hides from me. My presence hurts and weakens it."

"So if we do it when you're too far from each other there is the possibility that it would just sever the bond and that monster would be set free."

"Exactly. That's why..."

"Wait a moment!" Sam broke in, looking at his brother in disbelief. "We are not seriously considering this?"

Dean had the grace of looking a little guilty, but the ghost stuck up his chin.

"Of course we are."

"But... but... you will... " Sam was at a loss for words.

The ghost let out a weary sigh and hunched over himself. "I've been hunting Cerberus for five hundred years," he said tiredly. "For a long time I thought my fate would be to keep doing it for all eternity. Or until I failed and that monster succeeded in opening the gate again."

Sam opened his mouth to object but the ghost raised a hand to stop him.

"That's why I am immensely grateful to both of you. Thanks to you I have an opportunity I never thought I'd have again. I can help to complete the work I wasn't able to while I was alive."

"We can still do that," Sam interjected. "But there must be another way."

"There isn't," the ghost insisted. "Cerberus is too powerful for any of your normal tricks to work. I couldn't kill it, but I could become its weakness. Please allow me to finish what I started. Allow me to go down with honour."

It wasn't fair, it simply wasn't fair. Half a millennium of fighting only to end up fading into oblivion.

"Remember what you said about my destiny?"

Sam nodded slowly, unable to speak. Dean came to stand by his side and Sam tried to extract some comfort from his silent presence.

"You are not killing me, son. I'm already dead. You are going to set me free."

 

* * *

  


 

Sam stood in the centre of the room, waiting. Everything was ready, or at least as ready as it would ever be. In a few minutes, everything would go to Hell (literally) or be fixed forever. Dean was hidden behind one of the pillars, and even from the distance Sam could feel the anger and anxiousness radiating from his brother. He had strongly opposed to the idea of Sam acting as bait, but he had lost the battle of wills in the end. There was no other option, they had to bring Cerberus here, and they were fairly sure that it would come for _him_. For his damned blood.

The ghost of Philip II had gone somewhere else, probably to the other side of the castle. The connection between them worked both ways, and if the dog felt his presence there was a huge chance it wouldn’t show up, and they couldn’t risk it. It had to be done tonight, before the hellhound regained even more power and started attacking the tourists.

The silence was complete, except for the faint drumming of rain falling on the roof, and the moonlight filtered through the stained windows, painting faintly coloured shadows on the black and while floor. The result was a little eerie but Sam wasn’t scared; his hands were sweaty but didn’t tremble when he started lighting the candles one by one.

When it was finished, he took a step back, his breaths echoing in the church and his whole body bristling in anticipation. The demon knife a welcomed weight in his right hand, even if they weren’t sure it could do more than tickle the beast.

Right on cue, the ground started trembling.

Dean cursed softly but Sam didn’t turn his head. All his attention was focused on the darkness behind the opened doors. The darkness that, like a black void, was slowly taking shape and form until three sets of eyes locked on him. A shudder ran through Sam’s body.

There was a thunder in the distance.

Thirty feet.

“No howling and barking this time? Are we trying to be stealthy?”

The monster narrowed its eyes, clearly suspicious. It entered the room slowly, its three heads looking around and sniffling at the air until stopping for a moment on the pillar behind which Dean was hidden. Sam could feel his heart skipping a beat but the monster made a strange sound, very much like a snort, and fixed on Sam again.

Sam grinned maniacally. Cerberus had detected his brother and had dismissed him. Not many had underestimated a Winchester and lived to tell the tale.

Twenty feet.

“That’s it. You want it. You _crave_ it, isn’t it?” Sam definitely knew how that felt. “You want to suck me dry, don’t you?”

The hellhound showed its teeth and it took a few seconds for Sam to realize the monster was grinning back at him.

Fifteen feet.

Sam lowered his stance and opened his arms in silent invitation. “Then come and get it.”

Another thunder. Another lightning. The blink of an eye.

Cerberus jumped.

Somebody screamed and Sam would never know if it had been him or his brother. He dropped to the floor and kicked violently to make the candles fall, hoping against hope that any of them would hit the mark before the dog reached him. There was a sudden wave of light and heat and Sam had to close his eyes.

And then he felt a puff of breath on his face.

With his heart racing and the blood roaring in his ears, Sam forced himself to raise his head. Only to see three pairs of yellow eyes looking back at him mere inches from his face. He froze, looking in some kind of daze at the string of drool that ran from the monster’s clenched teeth down its jaw.

Footsteps. “Sam...”

The spell was broken. Sam regained the use of his body once again and started crawling backwards, trying desperately to put distance between them. Knowing deep down that if the hellhound had jumped fifteen feet in one second there was no chance he could get away in time. He watched in horror as the dog prepared to pounce on him –

( _No, damn it! He had promised. He had assured Dean it would be okay!_ )

– only to violently crash against an invisible wall.

Sam left out the breath he had been holding, finally noticing the low flames surrounding the demonic dog.

“It worked, Dean! We were right, it worked!” He hoped his slightly hysterical chuckle was drowned by Cerberus’ increasingly angry howls as it collided again and again with the barrier.

“Of course it did,” Dean grumbled, kneeling just behind him. “A devil’s trap in holy oil has to be the mother of all devil’s traps.”

Sam snorted, but when he looked at his brother he could see his own deep relief reflected in Dean’s face.

“Weren’t you supposed to wait behind the pillar?”

“Well, that monster was supposed to walk into the trap, not try to hop it.”

Dean passed a hand through his hair, and Sam noted it was trembling faintly. But before he could say anything, there was a sudden drop in the temperature.

“I wish I had possessed this knowledge when I was alive,” the king said, eyes fixed on his nemesis. “It certainly would have proved useful.”

Cerberus growled, producing a full set of menacing teeth. But as the ghost approached, the dog drew back as far as its burning cage allowed, whimpering softly. Ten feet from the monster the ghost stopped, and Sam would swear he flickered for a moment.

“Does it hurt?”

“I can’t feel pain but it’s not... pleasant. It definitely hurts _it_ , though.” The ghost grinned. “It hadn’t let me come this close since the night I died. Isn’t that right, my dear pet?”

The hellhound barked, looking at the king with hate filled eyes.

“Well, this little family reunion deserves something special, so why don’t we open the presents?” Dean took the bag from behind the altar.

Cerberus eyed the bundle suspiciously. The ghost nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered, looking at both of them in turn.

Sam gave him a brittle smile. He understood sacrifice. Heck, he would happily submit his neck to the axe if it would make up for the mistakes he had made ( _if only it were that easy_ ). But it was still kind of sad.

The king entered the circle. Dean opened the bag.

Cerberus went crazy.

It was like there was only one entity inside the trap. Some kind of grotesque centaur. The hellhound started screeching and howling in pain, running in circles and twisting its heads trying to bite the shape protruding from its back. But the ghost was obviously immune and the dog’s jaws only closed around thin air.

Suddenly, the beast stopped moving, raised its head and let out a long, high-pitched howl, so deafening the brothers had to cover their ears. There were a few blessed seconds of silence and then... a loud thunder.

From _below_.

The floor started shaking so much Sam thought ( _wished_ ) for a moment that it was an earthquake. But he knew it wasn’t. It was something way worse.

Cerberus was trying to open the Hell’s Mouth.

“Dean! Hurry up, damn it!”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Dean yelled, trying to keep upright and salt the bones at the same time.

Sam had to hold onto a pillar in order not to fall and watched in horror as large cracks started appearing all along the floor. A fiery light came through them, dying the room in red, and he looked mesmerized to the one that ran just between his feet. Because inside the cracks you could see it. You could see _Hell_.

“ _Dean!_ ”

“Coming!” The smell of gasoline filled Sam’s nostrils. There was a spark of light and he looked up just in time to see Philip II burst into flames around the beast that was writhing and twisting in the throes of death, until it finally collapsed with a loud whine.

The trembling stopped. The room went dark.

“Dean?”

“Here.”

Sam blinked, needing a few moments for his eyes to get used again to the absence of light, and saw his brother making his way towards him.

“It’s over, then,” Dean said arriving by his side.

It probably had been barely a couple of minutes since the moment the king had entered the devil’s trap, but it sure had felt like hours.

“It seems so.” Sam looked at the unmoving shape lying in the middle of the room. After the whole fuss it was kind of... anticlimactic. “What do we do with it? We can’t leave the body here.”

“Standard procedure.” Dean shrugged. “Let’s burn the son of a bitch.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah.”

Dean walked towards the corpse, lighter and gasoline in hand, while Sam took a few moments to look at the now scorched remains of Philip II. It was strange, but Sam could swear that for a moment he had seen the ghost smile before disappearing in flames.

“Dean.” He raised his head. “Do you think...?” The words died in his throat.

His brother was behind Cerberus, happily pouring the gasoline over the body. Completely oblivious to the fact that the eyes of one of the heads were open and completely alert.

Sam made a strangled sound, trying send out a warning, but it was too late. Dean had half a second to look confused before a gigantic paw hit him square in the chest and sent him flying across the room to land in a heap on the floor.

Panting and trembling, the hellhound rose to its feet. It was badly hurt and clearly weakened, with two of its head hanging limply at its sides. But it was still very much alive.

“Dean, are you okay? Can you hear me?” His brother wasn’t moving, and the dog was eyeing him, obviously not so keen of making the mistake of ignoring Dean this time around, and Sam was about to go into full-on panic mode. If the beast decided to attack his brother there was just no way Sam could reach him in time. Cerberus was going to kill them both and then use his cursed blood to recover and open that fucking passage. Sam would come back, Lucifer would make sure of it, but this time, instead of waking in his brother’s warm arms, it would be to his cold, dead body.

He closed his eyes. A cold wave washed over him. Sweeping all traces of fear and worry in its wake and leaving only bristling anger.

 _No_.

“Don’t you dare, you motherfucker. Don’t even think about it,” he hissed.

He was done playing the victim and being used like a puppet. Done allowing others to pull his strings and make decisions for him. Done letting his brother down and putting him in danger. He was fucking _done_. He wasn’t going to let Philip’s sacrifice go to waste, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to allow a stupid dog touch a single hair on Dean’s head, let alone kill him.

Sam set his jaw, tightened his fist around the demon-killing knife and made a long cut along his left palm, letting his blood fall freely. As if pushed by a string, the hellhound’s eyes locked on the small red puddle on the floor.

“That’s it. This is what you really want, isn’t it?” Cerberus swallowed and smacked its lips, taking a small step forward. “A few drops and you are already a fucking addict, huh?” Sam grinned. “I know exactly how you feel.”

He rubbed his hands against his face, staining it red. The dog let out a deep growl and finally looked him in the eyes.

“Yeah, I’m your miracle worker. My brother is not of use to you. Come and get your fix.”

Just like the last time, Cerberus jumped. And maybe it was because of its weakened state or because of the strange calmness that had overtaken Sam’s body and mind, but he could see it like it was advancing in slow motion. He dodged right, grabbed the knife with both hands and stabbed the beast in its side with all his strength. They both fell to the floor, Sam lying half over the body of the beast, pinning it down with the knife while the monster howled in pain and tried to shake him off.

There was a faint groan from other side of the room. “Sammy? What the...?”

Something unclenched in Sam’s chest. A ball of worry he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge unravelled and disappeared. But he didn’t have time to rejoice or reply.

This had to end _now_.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas...”

A red circle appeared around Cerberus, and the hellhound redoubled his efforts to break free, fighting violently and twisting to bite him. Sweat appeared on Sam’s brow from the effort of holding on to the beast.

“...omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica...”

The black dog convulsed and Sam clenched his teeth. His arms were on fire and he realized with a chill that his hold on the knife was starting to become slippery. Smoke started rising and he choked. He feared he wasn’t going to make it, but the thought had barely formed in his brain when a pair of calloused hands closed over his and a familiar deep voice took over.

“Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi...”

Sam looked up, not quite surprised to see Dean nodding at him. He nodded back and both brothers joined their words to finish the spell.

“…te rogamus, audi nos!”

There was a last pathetic whine and finally the demonic watchdog sank through the solid marble like it was made of quicksand, disappearing like it had never been there at all.

And it was over. For real this time.

Sam let go of the knife and dropped onto his back, breathing deeply. But not three seconds had passed when Dean was over him, frantically searching for any wounds.

“Dean! Dean, it’s okay!” He showed him his palm. “It’s only my hand, see?”

Dean grabbed his hand and examined it closely before ripping off part of his shirt and using it a make-shift bandage, grumbling under his breath something about reckless little brothers and stupid ideas. Sam watched him, then glanced at the spot where Cerberus had disappeared, and chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Dean frowned. “Do you care to share?”

Sam shook his head.

“No it’s just that... it’s kind of ironic, don’t you think? All the careful planning and the mess afterwards” he signalled around, “just to end it all with an everyday exorcism.”

“Yeah, hilarious,” Dean deadpanned.

Sam sobered up, his elation fading as he thought about Philip’s useless sacrifice. If they had exorcised the hellhound in the beginning, maybe the ghost could have passed on peacefully.

“We don’t know if it would have worked,” Dean said quietly and Sam looked up at him, surprised his brother has apparently read his mind. “Iron and salt weren’t even one bit in it’s radar before, so maybe it was the whole bond-breaking thingy that made it vulnerable to the exorcism.”

“Guess we’ll never know for sure.” Sam shrugged.

“So,” Dean finished tying the bandage and sat back. “What were you going to ask me?”

“What?”

Dean huffed in exasperation, like it was obvious what he meant and Sam should be able to follow all his mental leaps. “Before Cerberus’ revival tour you were going to ask me something. What was it?”

“Oh. That was...” Sam passed his good hand through his hair, a little embarrassed. “It’s stupid but I was just going to ask you if you think salted spirits can go to Heaven.”

Dean didn’t answer immediately; it looked like he was actually giving the question some thought. “Well, I hadn’t thought about it before, but you know?” He smirked. “If there is a ghost strong-headed enough to make it into Heaven, that’s our Philip.”

Sam felt a small burden lift off his chest. Like his brother saying it out loud would made it true. And who knew? Maybe it was.

“Yeah. You’re probably right.” He smiled softly.

Dean stood up and held out his hand. “Let’s get out of here. As comfy as this place is, I think my frozen ass will appreciate spending the rest of the night in an actual bed.”

Sam snorted and let himself be pulled up. Then he looked around, taking into account the pitiful state of the room. “And I wouldn’t want to face the cleaning lady in the morning.”

They walked through the corridors in comfortable silence, but when they opened the door leading to the gardens, Dean took a look at the unforgiving clouded sky and cursed under his breath.

“Damn it, it’s still raining. It was supposed to have stopped by now.”

“Supposed?”

“Of course. The whole thunder and rain storm mood made sense before, but now it should have cleared so we could start our triumphal walk into the sunrise. Or into the night. Or whatever.”

Sam blinked. “Dude, you watch way too many bad horror movies.”

“It was you who brought me to an ancient haunted castle. I’m only sticking to the consensus.”

Shaking his head in amusement, Sam stepped out and started running through the rain towards the outer wall, his big brother’s footsteps right behind him.

No need to think yet about what tomorrow would bring. Or take away.

 

* * *

 

When Sam woke up, even before opening his eyes, he knew Dean wasn’t in the room anymore. He knew it because his heart was beating outside his body, because his back was covered in cold sweat and because there was a scream lodged in his throat. He knew it because all that hadn’t happened a couple of hours ago, when he had opened an eye to see his brother snoring peacefully and had simply rolled over and fallen asleep again.

He covered his face with trembling hands and took a deep shaky, breath, letting the images and words fading into the recesses of his mind. After two nights (well, _almost_ two nights) he had to conclude that somehow his brother’s presence managed to keep his dreams at bay but he wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Maybe he felt subconsciously safer when he was with his brother and Lucifer had a harder time getting to him.

Or maybe he had gone certifiably crazy and was actually making the whole stalking thing up.

 _Yeah, right_. Sam snorted. In his dreams ( _literally_ ).

He slowly opened his eyes and looked around the room. When he spotted his brother’s duffel bag on the floor by the rumpled bed, he exhaled in relief. He _knew_ that Dean wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye – all signs pointed that his brother didn’t intent to cut him off again – but he couldn’t completely squash the irrational fear at the back of his mind.

The clock of the wall told him it was nearly ten (being close to his brother was giving him a serious oversleeping problem) and he absently wondered how long Dean had been gone. A bitter, twisted part of his brain tried to convince him that Dean had gone downstairs to pack, but to be fair, chances were that his brother had simply gone to pick up breakfast. Besides, Dean had flat-out refused to set foot in his own room for nearly two days, so all his belongings were probably already here.

Well, no use in waiting idly around; Sam might as well do some research in the meantime. He still had a lot to learn about the next destination on his list. Getting out of bed, he switched on his laptop, ready to lose himself in facts and data for a while.

The door clicked open. “You really are a geek.” Dean grinned from the threshold, shaking his head. “I leave you sleeping peacefully and the moment I turn my back you’re glued to that computer. I should have hauled your ass out of bed before I left.”

Sam felt his own mouth twitching. “You should have.” After all he had been sleeping peacefully _until_ Dean had gone. “Is that breakfast?”

“Yep.”

Dean forced a paper cup into his hand. And Sam looked at it in surprise.

“Starbucks?”

“I passed by one and I thought you might want one of those disgustingly frilly beverages that try to pass for coffee. And at least the waiters speak English there.”

Sam felt something flutter in his stomach. He knew for a fact that the closest Starbucks was situated at least twenty minutes from their motel, so there was no way Dean had found it by chance. When he took a sip the drink was only lukewarm, bearing witness of the long walk from the shop, and it had maybe a little too much cinnamon.

It was still the best coffee he’d ever had.

“By the way, you won’t believe the things people are saying out there. The hunt is all over the news!”

“What? Did they get our faces?” Sam could swear there weren’t security cameras in the castle, but if he was wrong, it was going to be a lot more difficult to leave the country. At least for him, since he didn’t have an angel to rely on and had to smuggle himself into a plane somehow.

“Woah! Don’t get your panties in a twist. Nothing like that.” Dean raised his arms in a calming gesture. “Police believes that it was a satanic cult that held a dark ritual in there.”

“Huh. Dean, there _was_ a dark ritual held in there. The candles and human remains are kind of a giveaway, even for civilians.” They hadn’t even bothered to try to clean and cover their marks – after all, how could you fix a broken marble tomb and the gigantic cracks in the floor?

“Yeah, but dude, everybody has got it backwards and now they are making weird shit up! There are a lot of nutters around the castle trying to pick up demonic energy, and even the barista swore he had seen the black dog this morning!”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, he was lying. He looked at me funny when I asked how many heads it had.”

Sam rubbed his face, but couldn’t help a soft snort. Dean was right, it was crazy but damn amusing. He took another sip and side-eyed his computer. “By the way, Dean, when do you intend to call Castiel?”

Dean shrugged. “As soon as the room is cleared. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

It was like a cold shower. Sam chocked and started coughing. Dean came to his side and started patting his back.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” he asked after the fit subsided.

“Ye–yes. I just... I thought...” _What?_ What had he thought? That Dean would decide to stay a little longer just for the pleasure of his company? That they would hang out for a while? Obviously Dean had way more important things to do than waste any more time catering to the whims of his little brother. Sam really couldn’t ask for more that he had already been given. It was time to man-up and face the music. “I just thought I had more time to book my flight.”

“Your flight?” Dean’s brow furrowed.

“Yeah, I know I should have probably booked it already, but it just slipped my mind. I’m not sure I’ll be able to find something I can afford for today, though. So I’ll probably have to stay here for another night, or a couple more. At least you don’t have to worry about the room, I’ll cancel yours when I go down to renew mine.” He knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You can call Castiel right away, if you want. It'll be good to see him, even just for a few minutes.”

“Sam, you’re not making any sense. What are you talking about? What flight?”

“To Turkmenistan.”

“Turme-what?”

“It’s the next place on my list,” Sam pointed vaguely towards the files on his desk.

Dean turned and blinked. A confused look on his face. “Wait, you...” he struggled to find the words. “You think I’m going with Cas and leaving _you_ here? To set off god-knows-where?”

Sam shrugged. The answer was pretty obvious. “We both have things to do.”

Dean scowled. “You better think again, then!” he bit out. “I don’t know what crazy ideas you’ve got in that skull of yours, but I’m not going anywhere. Not without you!”

Sam leaned against the wall, thoughts scrambled by the sudden flare of hope slamming into him like a punch. But even with his eyes closed he could still feel the waves of anger radiating from his brother, he could hear the tension in his voice. The flare was gone as fast as it had come.

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Yes, Dean. You are.”

His brother had always taken his responsibilities seriously, put them over his personal feelings and needs. And Sam knew that. He had always know how strongly their father had ingrained in Dean’s mind the need to take care of his little brother. Sam had always relied on it. Taken advantage of it.

Not this time. It wouldn’t be fair. Not for Dean, not for the world.

Sam had to stop being such a damn egoist.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean’s forehead was creased, his hands clenched into fists. “I come all the way here and now you...”

Sam raised his arm in a calming gesture. “Dean, listen to me. Maybe I’ve haven’t acted like it, but you know I’m really grateful you came, don’t you? If it weren’t for you I would... well, I wouldn’t be dead, obviously, but I would have probably opened the passage instead of closing it for good.” he took a deep breath. “I’ve learned my lesson, though, so you don’t need to be here anymore.”

“I don’t need to?” Dean’s eyes blazed. He grabbed Sam shirt and tugged him roughly around. “You mean you _want_ me to go? You want me to leave you alone? Is that what you’re saying?”

Sam felt wound up, too tight inside his own skin. Like his whole body was rebelling against him, screaming to take on Dean’s offer. But he couldn’t. Everything that had gone over that conversation at the picnic table still stood. Dean didn’t trust him. And sure as hell Sam didn’t trust himself either.

“I’m just saying you were right, Dean,” he said in a small, wrecked voice. “We are better apart.”

Dean winced and let go of Sam’s shirt like he’d burned his hand. Sam concentrated on trying to pull air through his closing throat. He could feel his eyes prickling dangerously and he clenched his teeth to prevent anything from falling.

“You’re trying to convince _me_ we are better apart?” Dean stepped away, a stricken look on his face. “Goddamn it. Of all the fucking things you could decide to agree with me...”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam croaked. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I– I won’t bother you, of course, but I’ll make sure to keep the mobile charged in case you want to check on me again. I’ll even connect the voicemail again. I’m fine, Dean, it’s fine.” He tried to smile but he could feel it cracking on the edges. “You can go now.”

There was a growing dark stain spreading on the carpet, and Sam realized with a pang he had dropped the coffee.

“This is such a fucking mess,” Dean muttered, rubbing his face tiredly. “I thought things were getting better, but you’ve been thinking that the whole time, haven’t you?”

Sam couldn’t meet his eyes. Didn’t want to.

“Fair enough.” Dean sighed. “I guess it’s my fault for not saying anything before.”

“Dean, I understand. You don’t need to...” Sam started to object but his brother turned his gaze on him.

“No, Sam. You _don’t_ understand. And if you need me to fucking spell it for you, so be it.” Dean grabbed his brother’s face and pressed his forehead against Sam’s. “I didn’t come here to check on you, I came here _for_ you. I came to bring you back with me, and not only because there’s nobody else I’d prefer to watch my back, but because I want you by my side. Because you’re my brother, my family. Because I _need_ you.”

Sam tried to swallow. His throat felt twice its normal size. “But you said...”

“No matter what I said, Sammy. I was wrong. I was _utterly_ wrong. And I'm sorry I took so long to come around.”

Sam averted his gaze. There was turmoil inside him and he just couldn’t put his thoughts into order. Dean was saying everything he’d wanted to hear, everything he thought he didn’t deserve. And he wanted to just give in. He wanted to believe his brother so much it hurt. And yet...

“I– I don’t... I can’t... this is not over yet.” Sam stumbled to the desktop, picking one of the folders and showing it to Dean, using it like a barrier between them. “See? You– you have your mission and I still have to find those gates and...”

His brother closed in on him again. “No, you don’t,” he said softly. “You know as well as I do that this is only an excuse.”

Dean took the folder from his trembling hands, placing it on the desktop with gentle finality. Sam hadn’t even realized he was shaking until that moment.

“It’s not an excuse,” he complained, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. “If I close the gates we will–”

“Be honest with me, how many gates do you think you can find?”

“I found one.”

“Yes, and that’s awesome. But it was also too much of a close call. Do you really believe you can find _all_ the gates hidden all around the world? Do you really think you could close them _all_?”

Sam looked down; the list with the places that he had to visit had slipped from the folder and fallen to his feet. For weeks that list had been his safe place, his only purpose to keep on going. He had wanted to feel useful again, to stop himself from thinking about what he was leaving behind. Which, yeah, it hadn’t been very successful. But his stomach still wanted to turn inside out at the thought of giving it up and saying it was hopeless. It was like admitting defeat.

“I don’t know what to do. I–”

Dean must have seen the conflict reflected on Sam’s face, because he took another step forward and put his hands on his arms (and seriously, there had been more physical contact between them the last couple of days than the last couple of years, not that Sam was complaining), all but embracing him. “Hey, hey, look at me. Did you hear a word of what I said? _You_ are not going to do anything because this is an _us_. And if what you really want is to go to that Turme-thing or wherever, we’ll do that. But we’ll do it _together_.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Wait, you’d come with me?”

Dean huffed. “Of course, that part’s not optional.”

“But you think this whole search is bullshit.”

“I do. But if that’s what it takes, well, I’m up for it.” Dean gave a vague shrug. “So? Where do you want to go? The world is our playground!”

Dean was still holding him, and Sam felt a little dizzy, not quite sure he would be standing if it weren’t for his brother’s grip. He closed his eyes for a second and felt something slowly unclench inside his chest.

He was pretty sure it was his heart.

“I dropped the coffee,” he said, almost randomly.

Dean smirked. “I noticed. Next time you’re buying.”

And that was it. Something slotted into place inside Sam and suddenly an overwhelming wave of naked relief spread all over him. He realized he could finally let go, because his brother would be there to catch him.

His brother was here to stay.

Sam smiled slowly. “Let’s go back then. You like American coffee better anyway.”

Dean let out a small gasp of surprise and made a strange face, caught between hopeful and disbelieving. It made him look younger and vulnerable and just for a moment Sam thought his brother was going to hug him again. But after some struggle Dean schooled his features and just patted him on the chest.

“Way better than tar,” he grinned.

\--

[4] Have you decided yet?  
[5] I'll have the paella, please.  
[6] He'll have the same.  
[7] Maybe I can be of help.


	5. Epilogue

 

Dean scowled at the fountain his brother had been looking at in awe for several minutes already. He just didn’t get it. It was old, and not that big. The white long pedestal in the centre was maybe a little too long, and it made the stylized statue on top look even smaller. But the worst part was that he knew for a _fact_ that it was tremendously inaccurate.

Dean was definitely. Not. Impressed.

“I really think he should be taller.”

Sam snickered. “Dean...”

“I’m serious! Look at those wings. Cas would kick his ass in a heartbeat!”

“Well, I bet the sculptor didn’t have the chance to use a real angel as a model.”

Dean looked around. There were quite a few couples strolling through the park, but none of them were paying any attention to them or the fountain.

“Okay, I give up. What are we doing here? Why is this statue so interesting? It’s just an angel!”

They had been all packed up and ready to go when Sam had said out of the blue that he wanted to see something before leaving and had dragged him to a large park in Madrid. It was called “Buen Retiro” and according to Sam one of the oldest and most beautiful ones in the city, as it used to be the king’s private garden.

Yes, sometimes he did listen to his brother’s inane chatter. But it still didn’t help him to understand Sam’s thoughts process any better.

“It’s not any angel, Dean,” Sam explained with a sigh. “Look, do you see how he seems to be half-lying down? You’re in front of the only statue in the whole world dedicated to _the_ Fallen Angel.”

Dean made a disbelieving sound at the back of his throat. “The Fallen Angel? You mean the Devil?”

Sam shrugged. “I read about it when I was researching and wanted to see it with my own eyes.”

“Crazy Spaniards,” Dean muttered. “I don’t understand why anybody would want to build a monument to Satan.”

Sam shook his head. “You are wrong, Dean. It’s not Satan or the Devil, at least not yet. Right now he’s still Luzbel, the most beautiful angel in creation. This statue captures his fall, the exact moment he was expelled from Heaven.”

“You really are a geek,” he snorted.

“Do you see his face? All that surprise, outrage and sadness... I think I can understand why people feel moved when they see it.”

There was something really close to compassion in Sam’s voice, and it gave Dean the creeps.

“No way,” he growled. “You don’t get to start feeling pity or sympathy for that son of a bitch after everything that’s happened! You hear me? You just don’t!”

“I don’t, Dean. I would never excuse what he has done.” Sam awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “But before everything went sour he had a family in which he felt loved and safe and it was suddenly snatched from him. His father expelled him and his most beloved brother was the one to push him down.”

“So what?” Dean was not impressed. Again. “He’s a spoiled child with family issues. I’ll give him the number of a good shrink. All that crap still doesn’t give him the right to throw a tempter tantrum of epic proportions and decide he wants to annihilate the human race. ”

Sam couldn’t deny it. “I’m not defending him, Dean. I’m not. But it’s still sad.” He lowered his voice. “He lost everything he loved and let himself be consumed by despair and loneliness until there was nothing left of him. Until he went mad and became another person altogether. And I think...” He hesitated. “I think I can relate to that.”

Seriously, as much as Dean loved his brother, Sam really tended to think too much and complicate things unnecessarily. “Well, you shouldn’t. You are _nothing_ like him.”

“Maybe I’m just luckier.”

“You are stronger and better. It’s like comparing a Prius to an Impala for God’s sake!”

Sam chuckled and Dean felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his face.

“And which one am I supposed to be? Because I don’t think it’s...”

“Don’t you dare finishing that sentence!” Dean raised a finger in warning. “Priuses are evil and you know it! Impalas are sturdy and reliable and... and stop fishing for compliments, damn it!”

Sam dropped his gaze, smiling shyly. And Dean’s stomach fluttered. Because Sam was _smiling_. It was not a grimace, a smirk or a snort, but an honest to God light-up-the-room Sammy trademark smile. Before this trip he hadn’t even realized how long it had been since his brother had smiled for real (nor did he want to really think too deeply about it), but now every time he managed to put a smile on the kid’s face he felt like world was a brighter place.

Like he was slowly, but surely, recovering lost ground.

“Well,” Dean sighed. “Lucifer is a crazy son of a bitch, but there’s something I won’t deny.”

Sam looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“Michael is a fucking shitty big brother.”

And there it was. Dean’s stomach made another flip-flop.

“Yes, he is,” Sam grinned.

They looked at each other for a second, but then Dean broke contact and cleared his throat. He wasn’t quite ready for any more chick-flick moments.

“Okay, you’ve seen enough.” He patted his brother’s back. “I’m starving so let’s go!”

“Where are we going?”

“You wanted to see the Devil’s monument, I wouldn’t mind trying a couple more of those Spanish dishes,” Dean conceded. “But afterwards, there’s no excuses, we’re going home!”

“Home?”

“The States, of course! Do you know how much I’ve missed driving my baby? The open roads, the wind in my hair...”

Sam snorted. “The run down motels, the greasy dinners...”

“It’s all part of the charm. But do you know what I miss most?”

Sam made an educated guess. “Pie?”

“Well, duh!” Dean huffed. “But no, I mean other than that.”

“King-sized burgers?”

Dean threw up his arms in frustration. “No! I’m talking about people speaking a civilized language! I’m sick of not understanding a word of what’s being said around me!”

“That’s _your_ problem,” Sam pointed out. “And I’ll have you know Spanish _is_ a civilized language.”

“Yeah, you keep thinking that.” Dean started walking down the gravy path, Sam stepping by his side.

“By the way, Dean, are you totally sure we should ask Cas to take us? He’s probably busy and we could just buy a plane ticket.”

“Nonsense, he won’t mind and I’m not setting foot on a plane ever again. Besides,” Dean smirked evilly. “That’s what we have our own angel for.”

“He’s not your private jet, you know.” Sam tried to keep a straight face.

Dean turned, raising an eyebrow. “Says who?”

Sam’s open, hearty laugh echoed loudly through the trees.

 

  


 

++ END ++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is dedicated entirely to [](http://vail-kagami.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://vail-kagami.livejournal.com/)**vail_kagami** , who’s not only one of the most talented authors in the whole fandom (seriously, if you haven’t read her stuff don’t waste your time here! go now!), but also the whole moving force behind the creation of this story. If it weren’t for her encouragement to convince me to write, her belief in me and her unconditional support, this fic would simply have never existed. She helped me overcome my insecurities and venture in the world of fic writing, something that I had only dreamed of before.
> 
> She’s also the best and most patient beta in the world. She had to deal with my poor English skills and correct one every three words to make the story readable. I had the idea but she put it into pretty words. All remaining mistakes are no doubt mine.
> 
> I also want to thank **_Shadira_** , my RL friend which I basically bullied to use her photoshop talents in making some stunning banners for my fic, even-though she hasn’t read a word of it yet and she doesn’t use Livejournal. And again, to [](http://vail-kagami.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://vail-kagami.livejournal.com/)**vail_kagami** again, for gifting me with one of the most beautiful illustrations I’ve ever seen for a story. I think I must be the luckiest girl in the world for having not one, but two amazing artists!
> 
> Lastly, I must say none of these is mine. Neither Sam and Dean (regretfully) or the legend of El Escorial. I haven’t invented any of the places or legendary and historical details mentioned here. I may have interpreted them to reach my own personal conclusions, but everything explained in the story it’s actually true.  
>   
> 


End file.
